Wet wool will not wait for introductions.
"Do not take that wool through the lower gate," Ma called out, one hand gripping the wooden frame of the loom lashed to her hired cart.
The Duke of Elmsworth, dark-coated and mud-spattered, looked from the woman at his wrought-iron gate to the wool wagon she had stopped, then held out the estate route board. "Then give the cart order, Miss Marsden."
The gate steward objected that she had not even been admitted to the house. Maud ignored him. Beyond the bars stood the pale manor. Beside her horse was everything she owned: a compact hand-loom, rolled cloth, baskets of yarn, and one valise. Her purse would not buy another night under a sound roof.
Wet wool will not wait for introductions.
She pointed down the lower track. "That store backs against the damp retaining wall. Put washed fleece there and the bottom layer will draw moisture before midnight. You will waste tomorrow drying what is dry now."
"The steward laid that route," the Duke said.
"Then the steward is wasting your day."
Ma took the board, marked the upper carriage bay, and drew a holding mark at the gravel circle. "First wagon to the dry bay, second waits here. If both turn together, the axles will lock at the doors."
The carters looked to the Duke.
"For this test," he said, "her board outranks habit."
Harness rings jerked. The first wagon turned; the second held. Maud had a bench dragged from the dry bay before the wool came in. Minutes later the load stood under a sound roof, and the lower track was clear.
The Duke looked at the empty wagon. "What would one week of this cost me?"
"Twenty shillings, and my loom remains mine."
"One estate lot, one dry workbay, the carts required for the trial."
"The advance is entered as wages, not charity. Any customer I find for myself remains mine."
"Agreed."
The steward's pen began scratching across his ledger. The Duke opened the gate wider. "Beat the brightened factor schedule, Miss Marsden."
Only when the wagon moved did Ma feel the cold October air through her shawl. One cart order had become paid work. The harder question was whether it would remain hers once the Duke's own priorities crossed it.
By noon the next day, the loom stood assembled in an old carriage barn, sunlight falling across its treadles. Ma had eaten a hot meal only after the steward entered the advance against her trial. Now one page of estate terms lay on the worktable between her and Valentine, Duke of Elmsworth.
He tapped the line concerning carts. "If a field road fails, I cannot have horses or men endangered while we debate a wagon. Nor can I promise a customer transport if you may remove it without a word."
His answer came in the same severe grammar he used with carters: "Immediate danger to a man or horse, I act. Otherwise, a textile cart is requested through you."
Ma added, "The weaving sequence is mine. Estate safety and manpower are yours. The loom and my private commissions remain outside the estate account."
Valentine looked at the steward. "Enter it exactly."
The quill moved. Hunger had made Ma willing to accept wages. It had not made vagueness any safer. She folded the page once and set it beside the route board.
Valentine braced both hands on the table. "Now, I would supply the cottages in one sweep."
Her eyes followed the straight chalk line he drew along the main estate lane. She shook her head. "You are moving yarn by geography. I must weave by width."
One dark eyebrow rose. "Explain."
"Cottage 3 has a narrow loom. Cottage 5 has a wide one. Put the heavy warp at three, and it sits on the floor until somebody exchanges it."
She erased his line and drew a staggered route. "The carter skips three, goes to five, circles back with the narrow work, and loses no loom hours."
"Your carter will be confused."
"My carter will learn the peg numbers."
He gave her a look that suggested the ownership of his carters remained debatable, but he did not alter the board.
At the third cottage, Edwina Radcliffe proved that Ma could be wrong, even while Valentine was not. The widow stood in her doorway with both hands planted on her hips and refused the weight marked for her wide loom.
"This room loses its clean light by two," Edwina said. "I can weave your dark twill in the morning, or spoil my eyes over it after dinner. You may choose one, Miss Marsden."
Ma looked past her into the low room. The single window fell quickly under the shadow of the adjoining wall. Her barn figures had not included that morning for the wide work. Then she shifted the heavy allotment, left Edwina the finer afternoon spinning, and cut one other cottage's load to what its daylight could actually bear.
"Same piece rate for accepted work."
Edwina took the yarn. "You can change your mind then when the facts change."
By dusk, every cottage held work its loom and household could actually use. No heavy warp lay idle on a dirt floor.
Valentine stood in the yard beside the empty delivery cart, examining the altered totals on Ma's slate. "You gave up the larger figure."
"The larger figure was imaginary."
He glanced toward Edwina's cottage, then back to the slate. "Then it was never the faster plan."
The answer warmed her in a place praise never reached. Valentine had understood why the smaller number was the truer one. He set the slate down and lifted the wooden bench that had blocked the barn door since morning. Without comment, he put it exactly where Maud had asked.