Read Online A Curse Dark as Gold by Elizabeth C. Bunce - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth C. Bunce
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there! Miss Miller?"
I spotted an unfamiliar pair of creased riding boots beneath the cloth, briskly making their way my direction. The cloth was seized with a fit of perversity and would not reach to the hook, just as the boots stopped right on the other side of the tenter.
"I say, do you need a hand there?"
And I, with my great backside thrust gracelessly into the air, looked up to see my father's banker grinning down at me. Flushing hotly, I abandoned my selvage and burst to my feet.
"Mr. Woodstone! Is it your custom to go skulking about in tenter fields?"
I could see he was trying not to laugh. "I resent skulking," he said amiably. "I did call out. Good morning, Miss Miller."
He had exchanged his black suit for a coat of brown baize -- heavy for the morning -- and the scuffed and creased boots. His hair was tied back loosely with a ribbon, and he wore no hat, no waistcoat. If I hadn't known better, I could easily have mistaken him for one of my country neighbors. Before I could answer, he stooped low beside me and pulled firmly on the cloth, slipping it easily onto the great iron hook.
"You can't think much of me after yesterday," he said. "Let's start fresh, why don't we?" He rose and held his arm for me to take. "Miss Miller, would you do me the honor of showing me your mill?"
I spent the better part of that morning leading Mr. Randall Woodstone on a tour of Stirwaters, from the spinning room to the tenterhooks, the felting room, the finishing room, the wheelhouse. All the while, he trailed at my heels, taking everything in and asking perceptive questions about the millworks: How efficient was the power train? What was our average return on a length of cloth? Did we buy our wool locally or was it imported? He noted my answers in a rather battered record book, no doubt taking our measure for the bank fellows. Is Stirwaters worth saving? If only their stock could bring in another two hundred pounds. Such a shame....
Rosie, contrary to my concerns, was at her charming best, not even one gold Curl out of place. If the banker thought it strange to find a young girl installed in the wheelhouse, walking him through the workings of the great waterwheel and its many smaller replicas, he gave no sign of it. Still, the farther along we went, the faster his pencil scurried across the pages of his inventory book, the more pointed his questions became. I read the look in Rosie's gaze: Was he sizing us up to save us -- or skewer us?
Mr. Woodstone and I followed the gears from the Wheel-house upstairs, along the path the wool took in the mill. As we passed through the spinning room, he paused before Jack Townley's carding engine, "And what does this do?"
"Mr. Woodstone, please don't touch that!" I scuttled closer and yanked his hand away from the razor-sharp carding cloth. "We've already lost one finger this spring, and I should hate to impede your ability to -- to draft up mortgage papers and such."
Mr. Woodstone let out a great laugh that echoed off the stones. "Duly noted." As I explained how the machine combed the matted wool into smooth fibers ready to be spun, Mr. Woodstone took notes: Carding engines (three), I fancied he wrote, fifty pounds apiece, "Very good. What's next?"
Undeterred, I led him straight past my spinning jack to Tory Weaver's, where the old jackspinner eased the long carriage forward into the mill room, drawing the threads out like a fine white web. Mr. Woodstone stepped in close and watched the hypnotic rhythm of Tory's motion with the jack, which was like a slow, peculiar dance, as he alternately drew out the frame, and then pushed it back again.
"Spinning is at the heart of our operation here, and Stirwaters was built to accommodate these machines," I said. "It's a skill that takes years to master. Mr. Weaver, how long have you been at Stirwaters?"
Tory leaned back and regarded Mr. Woodstone from wizened eyes. "Ah, I'd say I been here through the last three masters.
I spotted an unfamiliar pair of creased riding boots beneath the cloth, briskly making their way my direction. The cloth was seized with a fit of perversity and would not reach to the hook, just as the boots stopped right on the other side of the tenter.
"I say, do you need a hand there?"
And I, with my great backside thrust gracelessly into the air, looked up to see my father's banker grinning down at me. Flushing hotly, I abandoned my selvage and burst to my feet.
"Mr. Woodstone! Is it your custom to go skulking about in tenter fields?"
I could see he was trying not to laugh. "I resent skulking," he said amiably. "I did call out. Good morning, Miss Miller."
He had exchanged his black suit for a coat of brown baize -- heavy for the morning -- and the scuffed and creased boots. His hair was tied back loosely with a ribbon, and he wore no hat, no waistcoat. If I hadn't known better, I could easily have mistaken him for one of my country neighbors. Before I could answer, he stooped low beside me and pulled firmly on the cloth, slipping it easily onto the great iron hook.
"You can't think much of me after yesterday," he said. "Let's start fresh, why don't we?" He rose and held his arm for me to take. "Miss Miller, would you do me the honor of showing me your mill?"
I spent the better part of that morning leading Mr. Randall Woodstone on a tour of Stirwaters, from the spinning room to the tenterhooks, the felting room, the finishing room, the wheelhouse. All the while, he trailed at my heels, taking everything in and asking perceptive questions about the millworks: How efficient was the power train? What was our average return on a length of cloth? Did we buy our wool locally or was it imported? He noted my answers in a rather battered record book, no doubt taking our measure for the bank fellows. Is Stirwaters worth saving? If only their stock could bring in another two hundred pounds. Such a shame....
Rosie, contrary to my concerns, was at her charming best, not even one gold Curl out of place. If the banker thought it strange to find a young girl installed in the wheelhouse, walking him through the workings of the great waterwheel and its many smaller replicas, he gave no sign of it. Still, the farther along we went, the faster his pencil scurried across the pages of his inventory book, the more pointed his questions became. I read the look in Rosie's gaze: Was he sizing us up to save us -- or skewer us?
Mr. Woodstone and I followed the gears from the Wheel-house upstairs, along the path the wool took in the mill. As we passed through the spinning room, he paused before Jack Townley's carding engine, "And what does this do?"
"Mr. Woodstone, please don't touch that!" I scuttled closer and yanked his hand away from the razor-sharp carding cloth. "We've already lost one finger this spring, and I should hate to impede your ability to -- to draft up mortgage papers and such."
Mr. Woodstone let out a great laugh that echoed off the stones. "Duly noted." As I explained how the machine combed the matted wool into smooth fibers ready to be spun, Mr. Woodstone took notes: Carding engines (three), I fancied he wrote, fifty pounds apiece, "Very good. What's next?"
Undeterred, I led him straight past my spinning jack to Tory Weaver's, where the old jackspinner eased the long carriage forward into the mill room, drawing the threads out like a fine white web. Mr. Woodstone stepped in close and watched the hypnotic rhythm of Tory's motion with the jack, which was like a slow, peculiar dance, as he alternately drew out the frame, and then pushed it back again.
"Spinning is at the heart of our operation here, and Stirwaters was built to accommodate these machines," I said. "It's a skill that takes years to master. Mr. Weaver, how long have you been at Stirwaters?"
Tory leaned back and regarded Mr. Woodstone from wizened eyes. "Ah, I'd say I been here through the last three masters.
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