Chapter 2 #3
“Sloan, pull up a chair.” Mr. Hobbins waved at an empty space beside him.
Mr. Hobbins was the sole member of any guild aside from Lucius who had never snubbed Peter for taking on a female apprentice.
Peter liked the kindhearted, jovial man.
What a boon Turkey red would be for him—for everyone.
Not for the first time, a twinge of regret twisted in Peter’s chest. In a town already famous for wool, how much additional prosperity might true red textiles bring?
But Peter’s loyalty lay first with his grandfather, who had made him promise to always keep the recipe a secret.
Peter’s maternal grandfather had been a master dyer, a dedicated chemist bent on discovering the secret to the bright, fade-resistant colors flooding Europe from the Ottoman Turks.
He had sent letters to Languedoc, corresponded with an English-speaking dyer who revealed the mystery, and spent years in experimentation.
During that time the dyer’s guild had penalized his slow production, cutting his wages and ridiculing his obsession.
When Grandfather delivered a square of bright, colorfast red cotton to each of them, their tunes suddenly changed—but his grandfather had begrudged their greed.
Upon his death, Peter’s mother had inherited seven volumes of dyeing recipes and techniques, four dedicated to Turkey red—and none given to his colleagues.
“Thank you, Mr. Hobbins, but Lucius will keep me informed. My father is waiting.” This wasn’t strictly true, as his father slept soundly.
Mr. Fullman clapped Peter’s shoulder. “Be ready to help on the morning before Saint Valentine’s. We meet at eight o’clock. Bring your apprentices, excepting that woman.” His fingers gripped Peter’s shoulder. “Mark Gibbson’s girl approached last week, begging an apprenticeship.”
“Take your complaints to the guild masters in Gloucester. I am at their command, as you know.”
Peter exited into the cold evening, frost biting his ears and stinging his nose. Footsteps sounded from behind. He turned. Lucius bounded after him.
“Let’s go to the alehouse.”
“Don’t you have responsibilities at the meeting?”
“My relationship with the guild is weakening, for my work with cotton lays beyond their jurisdiction. I’d rather escape with you.”
Peter shrugged, and they made their way into the King’s Hound, where Lucius flirted shamelessly with the barmaid.
“You’ll have her at your feet if you keep on,” Peter laughed, watching the girl skip away.
“And you, my dear Peter, must exert yourself before your charming grin loses its shine.”
“Bah. I’ve no time for women. Not with Father the way he is. At any moment he may saunter by wearing his nightshirt.”
Lucius’s eyes softened. “I am sorry. Parents should remain as immortal and infallible as they seemed when we were children.”
Peter nodded as memories of his father threatened to rise and sink him into melancholy. He changed the subject. “How is the mill?”
“I am not finished speaking of your lack of romance.”
Their drinks arrived, and they clinked their mugs.
“May your mill turn water as well as money, and a woman scorn you until you’re forced to work for her affection,” said Peter, as it was their custom to make idiotic toasts.
“May you become as entangled with a woman as you are with your thread.”
They each gulped as quickly as they could. Lucius finished first and slammed his mug on the table. “I won and thus will speak my mind.”
Peter winced as he set his mug down. “Strong stuff. Did your friend add something to it?”
Lucius shrugged. “Listen, I’ve determined you must participate fully in the Saint Valentine’s festival. You require a distraction.”
“That’s the last thing I need. I’m already behind on orders, and today Mrs. Gainsworth commissioned me to outfit her servants and make her a gown. And she demanded I bring Miss Cooper, which I’d better not let the guild know about.”
Lucius regarded him with a consoling expression. “It’s happening already. Charlotte told me women might be eager for a female dressmaker. You need another place to settle your thoughts. Come, put your name in the valentine exchange with me.”
It had been a few years since Peter and Lucius had added their names to the valentine lottery, but why not? His head felt soft with the warmth of ale. A little fun could do no harm. “You make a fair point. I’ll do it, but I do not guarantee my full commitment.”
“No, no. You must promise me to keep it up until Easter.”
In the past, they had joyfully sent cards and puzzles to their assigned valentines for a few weeks until the pleasure was forgotten in other amusements.
“We’ve never made it past March.”
“We are older now, more focused. Come, let’s make a wager.”
“We are too old for such nonsense.”
“Then let’s make it serious. A challenge worthy of men.” Lucius called for more ale, then slapped the table. “The first to miss a week sending a valentine must agree to walk home from church with a lady of the other’s choosing for an entire month.”
“But that would raise false expectations.”
“Indeed.”
Lucius’s enthusiasm was hard to combat in the haze of strong ale, and the promise of amusement tempted Peter, who enjoyed paper crafts and watercolors.
He extended his hand. “I promise to abide by the wager, committing to send weekly valentines to whomever I am assigned, even if it’s the Widow Tolbert. ”
“She might draw you into her cottage and bake you into a pie.”
“Doubtless that is how she lost her other husbands.” The laughter and camaraderie allowed Peter’s troubles to fall away for a time—the mounting incomplete orders, his father’s growing need for supervision, his longing to spend his extra hours working with dyes rather than stitches.