Chapter 7
Charlotte wasn’t a coward, but she was tempted to call for a bucket of champagne and a box of bonbons and spend the rest of the day in bed.
If the world was ending, why not greet it drunk and chocolate-covered?
But she didn’t want to alarm her grandmother or let Major Dumbarton’s hot, grubby hands push her plans off course, so she hired a hackney cab and trundled off with Ivy to see about her one other source of funds.
Her silk mill.
She’d won five thousand pounds betting on Anna’s knowledge of horses and funneled it all into silk, but the mill wasn’t quite up and running yet.
So instead her hackney headed through the streets of Mayfair to Hanover Square, where it came to a halt in front of the entrance to a trim brick building with a polished bronze plaque that read JOSEPHINE’S.
When Charlotte pushed open the glossy black door, Josephine herself stood waiting in the center of the atelier.
She was, as always, wearing one of her own creations, a deceptively plain lilac shift with a matching lilac braid at the top of the bodice and a pale blue fichu of whisper-thin silk tucked into the neckline.
Charlotte marveled at how the simplicity of the design drew attention to the immaculate construction, the sheen of the fabric, and how the coolness of the colors played off against the rich, glowing brown of Josephine’s complexion.
“My goodness, Josephine, you look glorious,” said Charlotte. “Would it be too rude of me to whistle?”
Josephine allowed herself a smile. “Save your whistles for our silk. The samples arrived late yesterday.”
“They did? Let’s have a look!”
Josephine led them through the door at the back of the atelier and into the workroom, and something settled in Charlotte’s chest at the sight of the pins and bobbins, the wickedly sharp fabric shears, and the tidy boards with rows of thread arranged by color.
“You’ve got the eye,” her mother had said when Charlotte was still a young child, presenting her with a grown-up sewing basket packed with embroidery hoops, a rainbow of thread, and even a full-size pair of brass shears.
Nothing satisfied Charlotte quite like fabric—embroidering it, putting colors together, creating patterns, imagining gowns, pelisses, and gentlemen’s jackets.
She re-dressed the entire ton in her mind, and many of them badly needed it.
Like Warrick. All that muscle needs a jacket to hug it tight and—
She blushed and pushed the thought away.
The workroom was quiet as a cathedral as Charlotte tiptoed over to the five bolts of silk that lay glowing on a bed of white linen on the worktable in the middle of the room. “Well? How’s the quality?”
“See for yourself,” said Josephine.
Josephine’s shopgirl gently unfurled the first bolt, a length of blue-black velvet embroidered with stars of gold, deep purple, and flashing red.
Charlotte’s pulse quickened as she ran her fingers across the fabric.
She turned it over and inspected the back, paying particular attention to the stitching.
“I knew silver was too flat for stars. There are so many colors in the night sky.” A slight snag on the back of one star caught her attention.
“The embroidery’s not bad either, though it could be cleaner on the reverse.
I’ll have to show the girls my special way of finishing.
” She raised her eyes to Josephine. “I’m satisfied. And you?”
Another smile. Two in one day—a rarity from Josephine.
“I’m satisfied as well.”
Charlotte nodded and turned to her maid. “Ivy?”
Ivy stepped forward and ran expert hands over the fabric, judging the weight and luster and peering closely at the weave.
“It’s perfect,” she pronounced. “I knew Mum wouldn’t let you down. None of the Spitalfields women would.”
Ivy was born in Spitalfields, to one of the Huguenot families who’d fled to England years ago to escape persecution in France and brought the knowledge of silk weaving with them.
Even the queen had noticed, commanding the ladies of her court to buy only Spitalfields silk.
When Charlotte first had the idea of opening a silk mill, she knew that Ivy could find the weavers and that she needed Josephine as her partner.
Charlotte would provide the funds and the Ramsay name, and Josephine would bring impeccable style and practical skills for running a business.
They soon agreed that the silk mill was to be run and managed entirely by women, from the rafters to the floor.
Ivy reached for the second bolt. This one was Josephine’s design, a silk taffeta of pale greens and blues with a wandering, watery pattern that made Charlotte feel as if she were floating.
“Glorious.” Charlotte flashed Josephine a grin and dove into the remaining bolts, a pink velvet embroidered with gemstones, and three more silk taffetas: one of swirling clouds, one of peonies in full bloom, and one of hellebore.
“It’s so good, I don’t want to sell it. We all knew the biggest danger would be that I’d want to hoard everything for myself. ”
“Have a look at the damask,” said Josephine. “You won’t want that.”
The last fabric sample was just a small scrap and not a full bolt, but it still made Charlotte’s stomach sink.
She’d created a delicate feather pattern in blush pink, and also in dove gray for those coming out of mourning.
But the threads pulled and made the design look shaky, as if it had been drawn by an elderly hand.
“The Jacquard loom’s still causing problems? If Monsieur LaForey can’t get it working, we’ll have to look elsewhere, especially because…” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Especially because we need to expand our offerings.”
That pulled Josephine’s head up. “Expand? You’re the one who argued that we should start small and exclusive.”
“I remember.” They’d done so much—importing the raw silk from Italy, selecting the colors and matching the dyes, finding the looms, and recruiting the Huguenot weavers.
So many patterns sketched out and reworked, only to be rejected because Charlotte and Josephine both had impossibly high standards and could squabble endlessly over the thickness of a line, or different shades of pink.
And, of course, there was the question of how to sell the silk, which had caused hours of heated debate until they settled on the idea of starting with only six patterns, offered to the ton by an earl’s sister and London’s leading modiste.
“Unfortunately, my circumstances have changed.”
Josephine’s forehead, normally so smooth, folded into worried pleats. “In what way have they changed?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I can only say I need to recoup my investment as soon as possible. Do you have objections to starting bigger, selling more patterns right away?”
Josephine considered, and Charlotte could feel her nerves. “It’s a bigger risk, but I’ve no objection to starting with twelve silks.”
“Twelve, plus four damasks,” Charlotte countered.
If they sold it all—which they would, if she had to walk up and down England and cram samples under every modiste’s and silk mercer’s door—Charlotte would clear two thousand pounds by the end of the summer. It wasn’t enough, not nearly, but it was something.
You could make almost as much if you sold off the equipment now.
The thought was devastating, but it was also relentlessly practical. Charlotte took an unsteady breath and pushed it out of her head. There had to be a better way.
Josephine frowned. “It’s difficult to sell damask when the Jacquard loom doesn’t work.”
Charlotte smiled grimly and added the problem to her ever-growing pile. “Leave that to me.”