Page 11 of Claiming the Tower
“So, what would convince them?” Sarah asked, picking up the thread as deftly as her needles picked up the stitches to make the border on one of the little boots she was knitting.
“I do not know. Logic certainly doesn’t seem to work. Facts and figures don’t. We’ve tried providing information to key people, but they need to exert themselves.” Hereswith let out a frustrated breath. “I feel like I can’t get a grip on any of it.”
“The world’s like that, lass, sometimes.” Harry nodded. “You keep on with it, though. Someone ought.” He turned away, picking up a conversation with someone else, leaving Hereswith like she’d been handed a blessing and a challenge all at once. Once people rearranged themselves, Sarah considered. “Anything smaller you might lend a hand with? That would feel like doing something?”
“Oh, that I’ve been doing a bit.” It made Hereswith smile. “Someone from Horse House, a bit older. We’ve taken to chatting in the afternoon, when she gets a little time to herself. She enjoys it, I think. Certainly, she shows up, sits. I make sure there’s a treat or two. A pause, for both of us, though she’s got it worse.”
“Worse?” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You’re in the middle of a flock of difficult goats. What’s worse than that?”
“Being entirely at the whim of one of those older and entirely demanding ladies, as a companion. I at least have time to myself, space in my own head, outside of the frustrations. She doesn’t even have that, reliably. Always at the woman’s beck and call. I—” Hereswith paused. She’d never asked, not directly, if Bess would like help finding another position. “I could ask her a few things that might help. I don’t know what she’d accept.”
“More than if you don’t ask, I expect,” Sarah said, dryly. “Here, hold this, would you, so I can measure out the last yarn.”
Hereswith obligingly held her hands out, to let Sarah figure out how wide to make the border. From there, the conversation turned to plans for the Faire, the competitions, especially the knitting and crafts and the canning, Sarah’s particular interests.
Chapter 8
June 12th in Trellech
Bess squared her shoulders. It was not usual for her to be in Trellech on a Monday, but Madame Judson had needed more embroidery floss, and the problem could not wait. Never mind that she had plenty of other sections on her current work in other colours.
Bess had been sent off with a list of the precise colours, with threads to match. She had been told to wait and make sure the shop matched them properly. Given the vagaries of dyeing fine silk embroidery floss, Bess expected it would take them some little time. She would be scolded for how long she was away, no matter when she got back.
Madame Judson favoured crewel work, somewhat out of fashion these days. Bess suspected she did so partly to better complain about the more recently popular Berlin work. That was all counted stitches, quite geometric, and crewel work was more free-flowing. Madam Judson had a good hand with her embroidery, if not an inventive eye for it.
Then she went in, offering a smile to the owner. She was clear that the business was as much the work of Mistress Roberts as it was of her husband, who did the actual dye work. “Mistress Roberts, I’m so hoping you might be a help. Mistress Judson is in the very middle of her crewel work, and she simply must have more of several colours. Tell me you’ll be able to match them to her standards?”
Mistress Roberts was no fool, and well, she made her living catering to the sometimes ridiculous demands of a certain class of woman. “Ah. I am glad to have a look, of course. It may take me some little time. We’re training up a new apprentice, and she’s not yet as quick at matching threads as we hope she will become.”
“I am glad to wait, of course. Would it be convenient to wait here, or to come back?”
“Oh, please make yourself at home.” The downstairs of the shop was not spacious, but there was a small sofa and two side chairs set in the window and a table. The window was sufficient to look at the various threads in good lighting on a sunny day. Or, given the weather in Wales, supplemental charmlights for the cloudy weeks. Bess nodded once and settled down. Mistress Roberts set something aside behind the counter. She put up a small sign, and added, “If you’d let anyone who comes in know they can ring and I’ll be right down, that would be a help.”
“Of course, mistress.” Bess waited until the older woman disappeared up the back stairs, calling out to someone on the way. Only once she was alone in the shop did Bess pull a small book out of her reticule. It was the sort of thing she carried when she expected to be interrupted. The series of vignettes could provide a sentence or two of conversation if someone asked what she was reading. She’d had to set aside other works, except for the moments she got late at night. Madam Judson disapproved of Bess reading things her employer did not understand.
She had been reading for perhaps ten minutes when the door opened, and the bell above it chimed. Bess glanced up, then blinked. “Amelia.” Her cousin, a little older than Bess, and not someone who had remained in touch. One of her daughters wrote regularly, and a letter from Lily always brightened Bess’s day.
“Goodness. Bess. What brings you here?” Amelia glanced toward the counter. “Is Mistress Roberts in?”
“Please ring. She’s upstairs, looking to match some embroidery thread for Madam Judson for me. A serious matter of nearly running out of three of the greens.” Bess spoke evenly.
“Ah, well. I won’t ring just yet. It’s been an age since we spoke, though Lily was saying we ought to invite you out for something over the summer.” Amelia settled down on one of the chairs. “You look—” Then her voice trailed off, as if she could not think of anything suitably polite to say.
Bess knew very well what she looked like. Drab, for one thing, because Madam Judson did not approve of personal decoration in her staff, nor of individuality. She had on a perfectly serviceable dress, three years old, made of a pale brown chintz with small and undemanding flowers printed on it in a darker brown. It was respectable, but nothing more than that.
“You look lovely, Amelia. The bonnet, especially.” It was more florid than Bess would choose, even if she had more choice in that sort of thing. But the broad ribbons matched the detailing on Amelia’s blue and green dress. “I hope your family is well?”
“Oh, yes. Quite well. We’re ever so proud of Rupert.” That was her son, a bit younger than Lily. “Did you hear about his promotion? And younger than most.” Rupert worked in the Ministry, something having to do with accounting, but the responsibility suited him. “And of course the little ones are delightful, always.” Then Amelia turned the question around. “And you?”
“Settled, of course. Madam Judson keeps me busy. I’m afraid it’s quite a challenge to get time away for anything with the family.” Bess wondered whether to lean on the fact of a letter. “Or even write back as promptly as I’d like, but I enjoy hearing from Lily and replying as I get a moment.”
“Well, Lily remembers you fondly, despite, well, everything.” Amelia sniffed slightly. “It’s a pity you’re not using your gifts somewhere better suited, honestly.”
Bess had to swallow down a howl of frustration. No matter how tempting it would be to release it, it would do her no good. Not with Amelia, not with Mistress Roberts who surely had charms to make it easy to hear what was going on down here. Certainly not with anyone else who would be told the gossip later. That might be quite a lot of people. Instead, she used those hard-earned skills, made sure the way she was clenching her right hand wasn’t at all visible, and spoke as clearly as she could manage. “I haven’t had other options, Amelia. Those have passed me by, now.”
“Well, it’s a pity. You ought to have put yourself out more. Or your parents ought.” There was Amelia’s disapproving tone. The worst part about it was that Amelia was right. Much as Bess loved and missed her parents, they had made things so much harder than they needed to be. It wasn’t as if Bess were doing anything that mattered, or even using her skills somewhere they were appreciated.
She’d considered trying to get another position. But even if she managed to get away for interviews, she had no hope that anything she could get would be better than Madam Judson. Other places, she might be asked to take on duties she particularly disliked, or have to deal with a man of the house with assumptions about her favours. The food might be worse or even more scanty, or the other staff difficult to deal with. Being with Madam Judson could not be described as pleasant, but she knew what to expect. The other staff were all kind enough in their ways, as they had space to be. Why leap from the pot to the fire?
