Chapter 30 #2
The guild master sputtered, a forked blood vessel appearing on his forehead.
“Listen to yourself. The existence of The Golden Thimble threatens guilds everywhere. Women will begin petitioning for all sorts of apprenticeships, and then what?” He withdrew a handkerchief and swiped his brow.
“My own daughter wishes to pursue bookbinding. The indignity!”
“Bookbinding is a respectable trade for a woman.”
“She works with the bookbinder already but is beseeching to become a guild member, a great embarrassment to me. And of course, Miss Cooper inspired her. Our decision to allow her apprenticeship opened the door for endless other infractions. It must end.” Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth and sprayed with the sharper consonants.
Peter had conciliated enough customers to know that no amount of reasoning would move so unreasonable a man, not unless Peter possessed something Master Dickson might want.
His eyes fell to the door of his dyehouse. Master Dickson settled into the chair across from Peter with the posture of a man who held himself blameless.
“The law is plain, Sloan. She has been selling gowns under your nose for months. Operating a shop. Employing a tailor. The guild’s authority is not ornamental.”
Every charge Dickson leveled was true, and the law was, as he said, plain.
But Peter could not make himself want Meg to lose what she’d built.
Not because she was blameless, not because the law was wrong, but because he had watched her work.
He had witnessed what that shop meant, not to her ambition but to the women inside it.
Miss Reed and Miss Matilde, who understood the helplessness of being unable to work, had purpose and employment because of Margaret.
Countless women anticipated the comfort of discussing their gowns with a female dressmaker.
Peter could not make himself want that dismantled.
And though she had wronged him, he loved her still, and he would not let Dickson be the instrument of her ruin.
Already, the scheme to print cotton rolled forward.
Lord Halverton had accepted the changes to their contract, and Mr. Hobbins worked alongside Peter, strategizing until the undertaking seemed nearly flawless.
Arnold and Freddy had chosen to join him and dedicate themselves to printed cotton while Johnathan continued his apprenticeship to a tailor in Gloucester.
Chintz would soon not only be Peter’s passion but his livelihood.
And Dickson would want chintz. Peter knew this as he knew the weight of his own shears.
England had no dyers who could produce Turkey red, no printer who could replicate the florals of Indian cotton.
The man who controlled chintz in Gloucestershire would command a fortune, and Dickson had the connections, the warehouses, the appetite.
He did not deserve such an opportunity, but Meg did.
“Can I show you something, Master Dickson?”
“I must be on my way.”
“A moment.” Peter was already moving toward the dyehouse.
He opened the door to the acrid scent of alum and sheep dung and vinegar, the smell of his grandfather’s obsession, his own refuge, the space in his life where the striving settled him.
He let Dickson take in the vats, the tubs, the stained wooden blocks. The leather journal on its shelf.
“Turkey red,” Peter said. “The recipe and the process. My grandfather’s life work and legacy. I am the one man in England who can produce it.”
Dickson quivered with reverence and greed.
“And chintz,” Peter continued. “I have consolidated the method, the mordants, the wax resist, the sequence of dyeing. With proper equipment and labor, I will be producing printed cotton on a large scale within the year.”
“What are you offering?” Dickson whispered.
“I will supply the guild with five percent of the chintz I produce.”
“Fifteen.”
“You would be a fool not to accept one.” A warm rightness expanded in his chest, confirming the decision he’d already made.
His mind remained void of any argument that had stopped him from making this offer.
“I reduce my offer to three percent. But I will share the secret of Turkey red with the Gloucestershire dyers.” He did not have to explain how much that one act would change for the tailors.
Master Dickson nodded slowly.
“In exchange,” Peter continued, “you must withdraw the complaint against Miss Cooper and allow her to operate The Golden Thimble without impediment.”
Dickson remained quiet for a long moment. Peter could see the calculation behind his eyes, the fortune in Turkey red weighed against the satisfaction of punishing a woman who’d flouted guild authority. It didn’t merit consideration, and they both knew it.
“I must consult the wardens.”
“The wardens will do as you advise.”
Dickson’s jaw tightened, but he did not deny it. His gaze fell past Peter to a sheet of bright red cotton.
“You would surrender so profitable a secret for a woman’s shop?”
Peter met his eye. “I would surrender it for the principle that a person who works as tirelessly as she has ought not be destroyed for it.” He sounded noble, principled, but Master Dickson had not suggested an untruth.
The thought of Margaret’s shop shuttered, her women dispersed, her face when she learned the guild had prevailed, it closed upon him with a weight that made his grandfather’s recipe feel as light as thread.
And the time had arrived to share his skill with the world.
Steady, with a clear direction, Peter felt truly himself.
He had stopped shifting, had settled and found relief in that stillness, like a well-constructed garment draping without resistance.
Peter’s hand tightened on the doorframe.
The leather journal with two crimson thumbprints, one large and one small.
The hours at his grandfather’s side, the smell of dye and patience and love.
He shared his grandfather’s work because his grandfather was gone and could not release an old grudge, but Peter could.
The correctness of this act of generosity filled him, and he was certain his grandfather felt it as well.
Dickson gathered his documents. The complaint against Margaret Cooper disappeared into his coat. Peter took Master Dickson’s proffered hand with the brisk efficiency of a man who knew he’d got the better end of a bargain.
“You’ll need to apologize to Miss Cooper.”
“Well, I… No need for…”
Peter squeezed the hand with a firmness that spoke his resolve. “I want her to hear it from you that the guild will no longer be a threat and regrets having imposed upon her.”
Master Dickson sighed. “Alright, then. I’ll visit now.”
When the door closed, Peter stood alone in his office.
The dyehouse door remained open, its smell reaching him.
He walked inside, untied his apron from its hook, and held it in his hands.
The leather was soft from years of use, stained in colors his grandfather would have recognized.
He laced it around his neck and centered it over his body, then reached for a large vat of dye and dragged it into the measuring room.