Page 8 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“I wish to propose a different approach to selling our goods at the Saint Valentine’s festival,” Mr. Fullman said. The audience groaned in a collective sigh. “It is a good idea, if you’ll give it a chance.”

“Your last good idea found us with a failed batch.” This from Mr. Hobbins, a dyer who’d been persuaded to lend a vat to the fuller. Mr. Fullman had left alkali residue in the drum, resulting in a length of blotchy, blue-gray wool.

“I had my apprentice clean your precious vat. How many times must I apologize?” Mr. Fullman threw his hands in the air.

“Let’s hear your plan, Fullman,” the butcher said, then turned to Mr. Hobbins and winked. “Our cleavers’ll protect you.”

Mr. Fullman cleared his throat. “Instead of delegating individual tables for each guild to utilize, let us unite our resources and thus create larger, more impressive tents separated by industry. For example, the enclosure housing textiles would include myself, representing the fuller’s guild, as well as dyers, weavers, woolmen, and drapers. In another, bakers, dairymen, brewers, and butchers would gather to distribute food. Blacksmiths, carpenters, and coopers…”

“They’ve forgotten you,” Lucius muttered.

“They’ve slighted me.” Which was agreeable to Peter, as it spared him the trouble of planning a display and competing for the attention of festival attendees.

A general debate ensued, loudest among them the dyers, wary of sharing space. In the end, the scheme was approved, leaving the dyers to sulk.

Mr. Fullman clapped his hands and conversation quieted. “Before we convene with our guilds, I have a piece of good news. Mrs. Gainsworth, being the daughter of our own butcher, has donated a large sum to cover much of the festival’s expenses, meaning all the food and drink shall be free this year.”

“Generosity itself.” Lucius clapped with the others, and the men began dispersing into groups.

Peter turned to his friend. “I’d best take my leave. Come to my house after and tell me the news.”

“You needn’t leave early. Join us.” He gestured to the other textile guild members.

“I had much better return to my father.”

“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.”