Two
Laurel hurried through the passageways until she reached her chamber. She kept an eye out for the other ladies, not wanting anyone to see she carried the fabric herself. It wasn’t unusual for a lady-in-waiting to order fabric from a vendor, but it wasn’t often that they left the market with it themselves. Most women would have their purchases delivered, but Laurel hadn’t the coin to offer a page, nor did she want to make her guardsmen carry it. It wasn’t often that she purchased goods at the market, but she enjoyed browsing. She’d parted with her hard-earned coins that morning because she needed a hardier gown for the approaching winter months. The one she’d worn for the last five years was nearly threadbare, and she’d repurposed it as many times as she could. Since she shopped that day, she’d foregone the veil and plain kirtle she usually wore when she attempted to blend into the crowd. Her gown that day was hardly up to courtly standards, but it was finer than what she donned when she went to sell her Opus Angelicanum and embroidery. She was one of few Scottish women who knew how to stitch the intricate style so highly sought in England and Europe.
Laurel slipped through the door of her chamber, relieved that once again she didn’t have a roommate. She supposed there were a few perks to being one of the most senior ladies-in-waiting in the queen’s entourage. The last person to share her chamber had been Madeline MacLeod over the summer. The royal couple had summoned the former nun-in-training to court just before she was to take her final vows. Encountering Madeline in the passageway had been one of the greatest shocks Laurel had ever experienced. They’d once been friends of a sort. Madeline was the former ringleader of Queen Elizabeth’s attendants, and she’d risen to that position through manipulation and intimidation. Laurel arrived at court only months after Madeline, and she found a kindred spirit in some ways. Madeline’s haughtiness matched Laurel’s bitterness. When Laurel let slip a well-guarded secret about Monty, Madeline seized the opportunity to force Laurel’s support as Madeline ran roughshod over various members of court, most conspicuously Madeline’s future sister-by-marriage, Maude Sutherland.
Laurel opened her chest and lifted several kirtles out of the way before retrieving the Opus Anglicanum collar that was her current project. She hid the just-purchased woolen fabric in her chest and moved to the window seat. She would have a couple of hours to finish the collar’s intricate pattern and slip back to the market before the evening meal to sell her own fine embroidery. She considered how many times over the years she’d made this same clandestine dash, and how often she felt the secret satisfaction of seeing women at court wearing her creations, none of them the wiser that Laurel made them. She rued having to be in trade, but with no allowance coming from her father anymore, she had no other coin. Her father had ceased her allowance nearly five years earlier, around the time Madeline first left court, arguing that he was saving the allowance for her dowry. As the fourth of five daughters, and the only unmarried one, there was little left for her dowry.
Laurel’s father was the Earl of Ross, so they were hardly a poor clan. Her father had spent an exorbitant amount on the dowries of her first three sisters due to the alliances their marriages made; her younger sister Myrna’s dowry had been incentive for the groom to take her. As a result, her father was overly cautious about spending needlessly. He considered the monies he paid for her chamber and the food she ate, along with her maid and guardsmen, to be enough to sustain her. He refused to consider the expenses Laurel faced to be properly attired as a member of the queen’s court. Ever resourceful, Laurel had put to good use the hours upon hours of tedious stitching her mother insisted she practice.
Unbeknownst to all but a few, Laurel was her own dressmaker. She cut and sewed every garment she owned, often changing hems, cuffs, and collars, or adding and removing ribbons or other notions to make her older gowns appear brand new. The money she earned from selling her needlework, along with several prête-a-porté gowns. These ready-made kirtles enabled Laurel to clothe herself fashionably and to afford the various extravagances the other ladies indulged in.
Laurel discovered early on that to stand out at court in any way invited ridicule and gossip. Even though she and Madeline had struck up a friendship of sorts, Laurel wasn’t free from Madeline’s judgement and scathing comments. Madeline learned that Laurel’s tongue was just as sharp as her mind, so they rarely crossed swords. But when they did, the other ladies were quick to repeat all that they heard. The price of peace and her family’s reputation meant Laurel did what she could to blend in. It only added to the bitterness she clung to as a buoy against the consuming sadness she’d experienced when she left home. The court knew Laurel for her shrewishness; ironically, many considered her shallow for her style and what appeared to be an ever-new rotation of gowns. Only Madeline and Cairren knew the lengths she went to for her clothing.
At five shillings a yard, that was forty shillings, or two pounds. That’s a far sight better than spending ten pounds or more on a gown. I have plenty of thread to last me at least three kirtles, nae considering what I have for the embellishments. If I can have the gown made within the next sennight, then I can cut down ma old one. I can make what’s salvageable into smocks for the children at the almshouse, and the rest can be rags for ma courses. I’ll need to add fur cuffs and a hem to the new gown to keep the wool from fraying. At least it’s sturdy.
Laurel examined her work as the late morning sun flooded her chamber. She sat beside the window embrasure to see her stitches, but she’d sewn the same pattern so many times, she was positive she could do it while she was half asleep. She was fairly certain she had done so more than once. She needed the income she would earn from the three gowns she had stashed away at the bottom of her wardrobe and the embroidery she’d finished the night before. The money would pay for the gowns she needed for Christmas and Hogmanay. She still had several months, but she knew the merchants would increase their prices.
I shall look for Simon to sell the cuffs to this time. Samuel’s got a loose tongue that he flaps far too often. He nearly told Sarah Anne that the handkerchief she was buying came from me. The smarmy bitch is worse than Madeline ever was. Who could have known? How am I going to get the three kirtles to the haberdasher without crumpling them horribly? Why do I keep doing this? Two fit in ma satchel without too much concern, but three has it bulging at the seams. After all this time, ye’d think I would learn. That’s how Cairren found out in the first place.
Let me finish this before the midday meal, then I’ll join the other ladies in the queen’s solar until she retires during the prince’s midafternoon sleep. I can slip out to the market then and be back before dusk. Monty is likely with the men anyway, so I willna need to avoid ma guards. I can be back in time to dress for the evening meal. Right then, lass.
Laurel may have ridden herself of her Highland burr when she spoke aloud, but in her mind, she would forever be a Highlander.
* * *
I’m going to bluidy well murder this wretch. I swear, if he tries to haggle me down one more penny, I shall reach across the counter, snatch him by his scruffy collar, and shake him till his teeth fall loose.
Laurel gritted her teeth as she listened to the condescending prattle the haberdasher spewed as he spoke to Laurel as though she were a peasant. She wore her plainest kirtle and covered her hair as though she were a matron, a veil hanging to her chin to disguise her face. She was careful not to sound like a lady, but not so much that she might accidentally sound like a Highlander. Like courtiers, the residents and merchants of Stirling would perceive being a Highlander as worse than a being Lowland peasant. For all that the non-Highlanders claimed Stirling was the gateway to the Highlands, it was far more like the Lowlands. And that included believing all Highlanders were savages. She knew her brother’s arrival that morning had sparked the merchant’s acquiescence as much from the plaid he sported as his towering height and brawny arms. The massive two-handed broadsword he carried only fueled the notion that Highlanders were savages bent on running men through.
Drawing herself back to the present, Laurel nodded as the man droned on and on about how he could only accept the best-quality craftsmanship since ladies from court frequented his shop. It was the same monotonous routine each time she came. Drawing herself up to her full height, she raised her hand and shook her head.
“Enough. I haven’t the time nor the patience to continue listening to the same prattle you repeat every time I come to sell a gown. You know I am an expert seamstress, and you know the ladies who purchase these gowns pay ridiculous prices for them. You don’t need to examine every stitch as though I intend to cheat you. Pay me the fair price, and we can be done.” Laurel drew in a breath and looked down, waiting for the real negotiations to begin. The haberdasher would offer an insultingly low price, and she would counter with an absurdly high one. They would go back and forth, Laurel collecting the gowns and pretending to leave, and finally the man would relent to the price Laurel always wanted.
“I don’t think I shall buy any more from you.”
Laurel slowly raised her eyes to meet the man’s face, completely unprepared for this turn of events. She swallowed as she reined in her temper. Taller than the average woman, Laurel stood nose-to-nose with this merchant, unlike the one she’d towered over that morning. The veil obscured her expression, but her tone was quite clear. “You shall regret that. My sister is a maid to a fine lady at court. I shall tell Mary aboot this, and she shall tell her lady, and her lady will tell everyone. You shall be out of business before the sun sets.”
“No, I won’t,” the man sniffed. “I don’t believe you have a sister who is a maid. If you did, then why aren’t you employed in the castle as well? Why not be a seamstress for one of those high-and-mighty ladies you boast aboot?”
“Because I don’t need to wait on anyone else. I sew and sell as I please. And right now, it pleases me to leave and take my gowns with me.” Laurel folded the kirtles and moved to place them in her satchel before she paused. “By the by, my sister’s employer is Lady Laurel Ross. Are you familiar with her?”
“The Shrew of Stirling?” The merchant took a step back as he alternated nodding and shaking his head. Laurel stifled her grimace, hating the moniker. She knew she’d earned it, but she’d dulled her sniping and criticizing over the past five years, and she wished she could redeem herself enough that no one continued to call her the Shrew of Stirling. But she wouldn’t hold her breath.
“Aye, that be the one,” Laurel nodded. If she had to live with the infamy, she would use it to her advantage.
“You wished for sixty pounds.” The shop owner nodded several times before pulling forth a chest that rattled with coins inside. “You shall rob me blind, but it’s better than Lady Laurel showing up on my stoop or ruining my business.”
“That it is, mercer. And it’s hardly a plight to cry aboot when you ken you’ll make twice, if not thrice, that when you sell them. It is I who should bemoan being swindled. In fact, I think this shall be the last time we do business. I prefer Duncan four shops down. He barely speaks and pays without question. Aye, that is who I shall take my gowns to henceforth.”
“Nay!” The man’s already-ruddy face turned scarlet, and Laurel knew she was now in the sole position of power to negotiate. No merchant who traded with her could afford to lose her business; all realized that she never tossed out empty threats. “I—I—will give you eighty pounds for the gowns, if you will return.”
“One hundred, and I will consider it,” Laurel closed the satchel, then crossed her arms. It was an obscene amount for a seamstress, but Laurel knew from experience that the man would sell her gowns for forty pounds apiece. She frequented the stores dressed befitting her status to keep an eye on the patrons and the prices the salesmen requested. This would leave the shop owner with a profit, but it was far less than he desired. But one hundred pounds would ensure Laurel wouldn’t have to sew quite so much or quite so quickly to prepare for the upcoming Christmas, Hogmanay, and Epiphany expenses. As the man trembled, she lifted the satchel from the counter, but the haberdasher’s hand shot out.
“Very well.”
Laurel watched as the man opened the lid of the chest. When he attempted to use the lid to shield the coins he counted, Laurel shifted to see. She kept a running count in her head as the man stacked the coins, having given up trying to hide them from her.
“Ah-ah,” Laurel shook her head as he made to close the lid. “You’re no dalcop, so don’t be an eejit. That’s eighty pounds, six shillings that you’ve counted out.” Laurel made a gesture for him to reopen the chest. “I made an offer, and you accepted it. Do you intend to renege? Are you little more than a gillie-wet-foot?”
