Not a Gentleman

Chapter 27

Spitalfields

Margaret awoke slowly from a deep slumber, nestling into the down pillow that felt like heaven against her cheek.

"Well, sleepyhead," intoned a deep and pleasantly familiar voice. "It seems you needed your rest. But, time to get up. We have things to do today."

The bed creaked, and Margaret opened her eyes to see a fully-clothed John leaning over her, his hands to either side of her head. She sighed with pleasure as he kissed her. Everything seemed to be fine after the past few days of tumult. She was glad of this.

"Your bath is ready," John continued, "and breakfast should be arriving in the next twenty minutes or so."

Margaret stretched, and gave her husband another kiss. "What are we doing today?"

"It is the last day to see the Exhibition—" he began. She tried to hide her disappointment and failed miserably. John laughed and rose from the bed. "Yes, I thought that would be your response. Do not worry, my darling. We won't be anywhere near that part of town today."

"Oh?" Margaret stretched languidly and gazed at him quizzically. He was not dressed as he had been for most of their visit. He wore no silk waistcoat today, but rather an unadorned woolen one, and his frock coat, she noticed, was the one he typically wore during the week, when adjustments to the rather greasy looms might be required. His gold watch fob mas missing, too. Still, Margaret thought, to her eyes he looked as elegant as usual, if a bit stern.

"Why so plain today?" she asked.

"We'll not be visiting the best part of town," John replied.

Margaret reached for the robe she had left the night before at the foot of the bed, and found it missing. She did not allow herself to blush, but instead walked across the room, as John, and perhaps God had intended, naked.

Her husband laughed again. "Such modesty," he joked before the door to the dressing room shut with an emphatic click.

Margaret joined her husband at breakfast some time later, dressed in the plainer of her two made-over gowns. "So, our visit is to quite a different part of London than Marylebone?"

"Yes, rather. Now eat up, so we can be on our way. We'll not find a suitable place to dine while we are there."

Spitalfields was only a few miles away from the Brown Hotel, Harley Street, and the London Margaret knew well, but it might have been another world. The coachman of their clarence seemed to think so as well, as he refused to take the couple far beyond the civilized part of the city, and instead stopped the carriage at the intersection of Pelham Street and Brick Lane. John requested that he wait for them, and offered to compensate him for doing so. The man eagerly agreed, but Margaret heard the sound of retreating hooves soon after she and John turned the corner onto Pelham Street.

Margaret immediately appreciated her husband's thinking in dressing more plainly for this visit. There were a few unsavory-looking men loitering outside an inn, and Margaret felt the same unease she had felt when entering the Golden Dragon near Bessy's home. And unlike the cobbled streets of London proper, the streets of Spitalfields were largely made of dirt. And dirty the place was. There was an unlabeled storefront that appeared to be a butcher's, based on the strings of sausage draped carelessly inside the bay window, and the pig's head that sat on a chipped pottery plate. But unlike the butchers she'd visited in Milton, there seemed to be no pride of ownership to this place of business. The corners of each window were caked with a mixture of soot and street dust, and the ground in front of the building was unswept. Nearby was another shop of sorts, but very few items were on display. A faded, wilted kite hung in the front window, like the flag of a defeated, forgotten country. A set of jacks, a shuttlecock, and a small wooden toy rounded out the window's meager tableau.

The buildings themselves were quite strange. They looked nothing like the row house in Harley Street, with its elegant Georgian symmetry, nor did they look like the more modern housing stock in Milton. Rather, they looked like buildings she'd seen in engravings of old Europe. The attached houses were quite tall and narrow, and oddly, the uppermost levels were more windowed than other houses she'd seen in London or elsewhere. Several large, diamond-paned windows extended across the façade of each building on the street, and even from her vantage point, Margaret could see that these windows were also in dire need of cleaning.

John led her to the building next door to the ostensible toy shop. A faded door opened onto a narrow, steep staircase, with treads worn down by many past feet. A rhythmic, clunking noise grew in intensity as they climbed the three sets of stairs that led to the uppermost level of the building. A door opened immediately after John rapped, and woman with an infant in her arms and a garment as faded as the kite next door greeted them with a smile.

"Mr. Thornton? Mr. Lefèvre said you would be visiting today."

"You are Mrs. Thomas, then?" John asked.

"Yes, and that is my husband at the loom."

Four looms dominated the room, and Margaret immediately realized the reason for the many large windows. Ample light was clearly necessary to operate the hulking structures without making mistakes in ones weaving. Unlike the low, metal looms at Marlborough Mills, these ones were made almost entirely of wood, and stood even taller than her large-framed husband. Two long pedals extended under each structure, and Margaret noticed that two wooden frames were connected to the pedals with rope, and were hung from pulleys using more narrow pieces of rope. The frames themselves were hung with many looped pieces of cream-colored string that moved alternately with each press of a pedal. Through each string an exceedingly thin thread ran, and at the front of the loom, these threads were enmeshed in newly-produced, turkey red fabric that reflected so much light that it almost seemed to glow.

Margaret pointed to the frames full of string. "Are those heddles?" she asked her husband. "Like the metal ones at the mill?"

John nodded and spoke quietly. "Almost all the parts are the same, with a couple of notable exceptions."

Margaret waited expectantly for an explanation, but did not receive one. Then she realized that John did not speak out of politeness. Clearly his machinery was far superior to these looms, in the speed at which they could produce fabrics, and likely also in the quality of goods produced.

Mr. Thomas sat on a wooden bench that was built into the loom, and although the fabric he wove grew more slowly than the fabric John had shown at his loom demonstration during the exhibition, it still was a wonder to see how quickly the weaver's hands moved as they threw what Margaret recognized as a shuttle back and forth. Mrs. Thomas, Margaret noticed, returned to one of the room's other three looms, her baby placed in a basket set underneath the loom, and Margaret noticed the fabric she wove was more coarse than the fine goods produced by her husband.

"Mr. Thomas," John asked, "Is it lustring you are making?" Margaret smiled at John's attempt to educate her, while being respectful to the weavers. Of course, John knew exactly what the man was weaving!

The man grunted and nodded, but his wife spoke up. "Yes, lustring and very fine quality. Mr. Lefèvre said it will be used for gowns. I am making a bombazine. Easier work." Margaret noted the threads running through this loom were not as many or fine as those on her husband's loom. And of course, her fabric was quite dull, as bombazine should be.

"And what of the other looms?" Margaret asked. They too, were threaded and appeared ready for weaving, although unlike the two other looms, there was no competed fabric extending under the loom and rolled onto a beam.

"Those are in the use to two other men, but they are with Mr. Lefèvre right now. He's the one who owns these looms. Today's pay day—they've taken Mr. Lefèvre their work and won't be back for hours, as they'll drink part of their wages." The woman shrugged. "And they'll be no good this afternoon, nor tomorrow, neither. But that's none of my business. They each pay us a shilling a week to use the space. That helps with the rent, which is quite dear."

Margaret nodded. She noted a narrow bed tucked into an alcove at the back of the room, next to a rough ladder that rested against the wall. It seemed she, her husband and infant lived in this same room. But it was unusual for a family to be so small. She asked, "Mrs. Thomas, do you have other children?"

"Oh yes, six living, two passed."

Margaret frowned. It seemed death touched every family. But she'd never heard her own mother talk of losing a child.

"They're out and about," the woman continued. "I'd not be able to get any work done if they were underfoot." The woman noticed Margaret's quizzical expression and continued, "You're wondering where they sleep. Why under the looms, of course. We make up a pallet every night. There'd be no place to put them otherwise."

Mrs. Thomas did not look old enough to have birthed eight children. Mr. Thomas, on the other hand, looked old enough to be grandfather of eight. The man looked at least twice his wife's age, assuming said wife was five and twenty or so. The weaver sat hunched on his wooden bench like a frail old man. His chest and shoulders bowed inward, and neck seemingly permanently crooked forward. With each throw of the shuttle, his shoulders moved even further inward, and the lines on his face deepened. Margaret recognized this certain sign of pain. She gestured to John that perhaps they should leave, but the weaver suddenly stood up, and beckoned to her.

"There's something I'd like you to see, young lady." The weaver crossed the room and climbed the ladder that stood near the bed. He pushed hard on a hatch Margaret had not noticed before, and autumn sunlight streamed into the room. "Come'n see," he muttered, and John frowned. Still, he nodded his assent.

Margaret gingerly climbed the rough ladder, John immediately behind her, and allowed Mr. Thomas to assist her onto the flat roof of the building. She was quite surprised by what she saw. There were several large terracotta pots filled with senescing plants, but a few leaves clung to each plant, and one still had a few bright red flowers, despite the late month. But still more curious were the cages of birds. Margaret motioned to John as he alighted on the roof.

"Those are goldfinches," she told him delightedly. John shrugged to convey the lack of knowledge of a man raised in the city, but the weaver grunted in agreement.

"We go out to the fields at the very edge a town and catch 'em. This one here, " he pointed to a solitary bird in its own cage, "he's my singer. The wild birds come to him either to fight or to mate. Either way, they're ours."

Some of the small birds flitted back and forth within their small cage, while others seemed listless.

They were unhappy, Margaret thought, remembering the bird Edith had received for her fourteenth birthday. It was also a songbird. Perhaps this, or another nearby rooftop was its source.

"And what did you learn?" asked John once they exited the building. He offered her his arm, and she nestled against them as they walked.

"I was surprised by the roof top aviary," Margaret replied. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"They do what they must to keep food on the table."

"I think it's wrong."

Walking as close to each other as they were, Margaret noticed that her word caused John to stiffen imperceptibly. And there was a long pause before he replied. "What is wrong?"

"To cage up an animal in that way, even a bird." Margaret shook her head. "You know, I've never told anyone this before, but Edith once received such a bird for her birthday. A goldfinch. It was one of many presents she received that day, and she grew tired of it after a time. Then, one day her bedroom window was left open and so was the door to the bird's cage."

John chuckled. "And was Edith upset at this liberation?"

"She didn't notice for a few days."

"It sounds like whomever set the bird free did the right thing."

Margaret

s smile was small as she replied, "I am glad you think so. I do not think we should allow others to suffer, do you?"

"We cannot end all suffering, my darling."

"But surely we should do what we can."

"And we do."

Margaret nodded. It was not worth arguing, as it seemed they might should this current thread of conversation continue.

"Was he ill?" She asked instead.

"Who? The weaver, Thomas? I do not think so," John replied, the slightest tinge of alarm coloring his voice. "What makes you say that? Are you feeling unwell?"

"He looked as though he were in pain. Perhaps he had a malformation of the bones?"

"No, not at all." John visible relaxed. "The man's posture is a result of his work. It happens in only a few years to people working long hours at a traditional loom."

"But no one at Marlborough Mills looks so bent and broken. Was he elderly?"

"No, thirty, I'd say."

"Thirty? About your age? That cannot be."

John smiled. "I'm glad you noted that I do look after my hands' health. Innovation can be a good thing, Margaret. Thomas's posture—and pain- is largely due to his refusal to use a fly shuttle. It was invented over a hundred years ago, but many of the weavers in Spitalfields refuse to use them."

"I wish I had requested a tour of the mill from you. I have no idea what a fly shuttle is."

"You saw me demonstrate it at the Exhibition. The hand pulls a string and that sends a shuttle flying through the shed."

"The shed?" Margaret looked at him in confusion. It sounded quite dangerous for long, metal-tipped objects to be flying through the weaving shed.

"Between the opening the threads make. You saw Thomas passing his shuttle through. Quite quickly, I'd say, but much, much slower than a fly shuttle. And a fly shuttle doesn't cause the changes to posture you noticed. Thomas would be a much healthier man if he'd accept even a small amount of change." John smirked. "We really do need to familiarize you with the mill."

They continued down the street, toward the spot where the cab had dropped them off, and then turned onto Brick Lane.

"The weavers in Spitalfields have blocked the introduction of power looms for about 150 years. And as a result, their masters have moved most of production to Lancashire."

"This was because they were afraid of losing their jobs."

"Yes, certainly more fabric can be woven faster and cheaper, and with fewer workers on a power loom."

"I should think the fabric woven on a power loom might have fewer flaws than the fabric woven by hand."

"It does. And using a power loom causes less injury to the weavers, in the long term. Have you noticed that at Marlborough Mills the workers circulate among two or more looms?"

Margaret nodded. She had noticed that the very first time she entered the mill, just before looking up and seeing the master perched in his aerie.

"That is by design," John continued. "Moving about and doing several different motions in succession is much less harmful to a man's body than doing the same action a thousand times a day."

Margaret nodded. It was odd how so much of the mill's workings were not as she had originally thought. Her husband had proven to her yet again that he was a person of foresight and planning.

"And would they have lost their jobs? If Mr. Lefèvre and others had moved all production to Lancashire?"

"It's difficult to say. Some of them certainly. But there are jobs aplenty for silk weavers who can adapt to a power loom. At least for now. The market changes over time, and we must change with it. Not just the masters but the hands, too."

"But if it's much less expensive to weave with power looms, I do not understand why the masters would continue to use these men. Why cannot they entice these weavers to Lancashire?"

John shrugged. "I am sure they have tried, and to no avail. There is still a small market for handwoven silk. There are some who consider the long hours of labor needed to produce it a mark of superior quality."

That sounded like a belief Edith might entertain.

"Many of these weavers' families have lived here since the late 1600s. There are some Irish, but most are originally from France. They are Huguenots who fled religious persecution and brought their skills with them."

"Huguenots? I think Papa spoke of them. They were dissenters?"

"Yes. Calvinists."

"Like you, then. Are not Presbyterians Calvinists?"

John nodded. "I should think our beliefs overlap somewhat."

The pair walked silently for a while, arm in arm. Margaret could not help but notice how quiet the street was. True, the occasional noise emanated from the several inns they passed, and some men still loitered, but there were few shoppers, and no children. That seemed odd for a Saturday.

As they approached the next corner, she heard a curious sound. It appeared to be children chanting their multiplication table. The threes, to be precise. The sound emanated from the corner building. Its door was open despite the brisk October day, and Margaret could not help but look in.

"What place is this?" she asked.

"It is a Ragged School," John replied, and was about to explain when a lanky man came to the door and invited them inside. It was quite dark inside the small space, despite the early hour, but tallow candles placed along the wall attempted to mitigate this issue. The dull, tin-backed sconces that held the ersatz candles did little to reflect the light, and the room smelled distinctly of sheep fat. And unwashed boy.

Margaret wrinkled her nose as she looked around the room.

There were quite a few boys here, from ages three and up. Initially they sat on wooden benches, but on noting the arrival of John and Margaret, they mobbed the pair. Margaret felt the same sensation she'd first experienced on the large stone staircase near the Lyceum in Milton, as many hands attempted to touch her, to feel the silk of her dress, and the weight of her reticule. They did the same to John, she noted. Her husband lifted a small, leather purse out of his pocket just in time.

The teacher called his boys back to order, and surprisingly, they obeyed almost immediately. The teacher then asked his students to recite several poems and the group obliged in a sing-song voice that suggested they'd learned the words, but not the meaning of each. Clearly the class had performed for visitors before. The teacher called one of the older boys to lead the others before stepping away to address his visitors.

"I was wondering where are the children were!" Margaret exclaimed. "How good of you to teach them their numbers and letters."

The teacher, dressed in clothes not much finer than the rags worn by the children, smiled. "It's more than that. We prevent them thieving, or try to, and show 'em how to live a better life." He pointed to the doorway at the end of the room. "Would you like to see more? There are two more classrooms above."

"Yes, certainly," Margaret responded. "Darling, may we?"

Upstairs was a bit brighter, but the rooms were smaller as the space was divided into two. In one room sat a small group of young girls, all working embroidery. And in the next room was a somewhat larger group of older girls, and an assortment of easels in various states of repair. There was barely room for the girls to work, as the room was packed so tightly, but work they did. The quiet of the upstairs rooms was striking, and although only a few girls seemed to possess the natural talent needed to perhaps earn a living with this skill, the idea that the Ragged School would offer such lessons was inspiring to Margaret.

She wondered what Bessy's life might have been like if she had been given such lessons. What would Milton be like if there was a Ragged School? She felt her cheeks growing warm as her excitement grew.

"How long have you been painting?" she asked the girl closest to her, who had produced a recognizable facsimile of the chipped statue displayed at the front of the classroom.

"Only a few months. Me Ma says it's a waste of time. I should be selling matches or flowers or sum'n. But it's only on Saturdays, and I make up the time."

Margaret nodded. "And what will you do with this skill?"

"Dunno." The girl went back to her painting.

Margaret wanted to burst as they left the building. She tried to tamp down her enthusiasm, but John noticed her brightened mood immediately.

"I see you liked the Ragged School," he said.

Margaret nodded emphatically.

Her husband laughed. "Why am I not surprised?"

She had much to think about, but could barely contain herself. "Oh, John, I have the most wonderful idea!"

"Well, we can talk about it as soon as we find a carriage for hire. This morning's coachman seems to have driven off. I'm sorry, but we may have to walk for a while. Do you think you are well enough to do so?"

"Yes, John, I am quite well. You do not need to worry so."

"But I do, and I will continue to do so, Margaret." Wife sighed and husband smiled placatingly. "It has not been so very long, you know."

Since the incident, he meant. She didn't even want to name it.

"It's about two miles to the West End," John continued. "That seems quite a distance."

"In Helstone I walked five miles a day. Even in Milton I walked every day."

"Well, then. I see you will brook no further argument, and as we have no other means of returning home at the moment, I am forced to submit." John offered his arm, and Margaret took it gratefully. She was a bit tired, but it would not do to share this with John. Her wings might be clipped, otherwise.

It did not take that long to return to London proper, and the pair slowed to window shop at a series of interesting stores. There was a stationer, who had colorful marbled papers from Florence of the type used in bookbinding, and elegant writing paper decorated with flourishes in rust and gold. Next door was a seller of antiquarian books. The shop would have delighted Papa, Margaret knew, and she might have asked if she and John might browse for a while, if not for John's tendency to buy her anything and everything her eyes alighted upon. They walked on, but Margaret stopped short at a window further down the street. She could not help herself.

"How lovely," she breathed. It was a necklace of three oval, jet cabochons, each engraved quite delicately with a classically draped figure who appeared to be dancing.

"The Three Graces. Charite," John noted. "Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thaleia. Glory, Merriment, and Festivity."

"How beautiful. It reminds me so of Papa. Did he speak to you of them as well?"

John nodded silently.

"I had not realized you studied Hesiod's Theogeny together."

"Yes, it was the last thing we worked on. We did not complete it. You also read it with your father?"

"Yes." Margaret smiled at the memory. "When I was quite young he read me his translation. It was very confusing to hear of Zeus' seven wives. I thought him wicked—imagine swallowing your wife! But Papa explained the rules were different for gods. Then, when I was older, he helped me to translate." She laughed. "I still thought Zeus wicked. His whole family, really!"

She turned away from the window to continue their walk, but stumbled. John was there to catch her, of course, but he angered almost as quickly as the son of a titan.

"You are unwell. The day has fatigued you. And there is no place to rest. Damn it."

"No John, it was a pebble. I merely tripped!"

"Then why are you so pale? He raised his arm to hail a serendipitously passing hansom cab. "This will have to do," he muttered as he helped her climb into the two-wheeled conveyance, and folded himself in, as well.

She did not follow everything he said next. The air in the hansom was quite heavy, and the jolts of the vehicle quite unsettling. She did hear her husband state that this was his own fault, however. His visage was full of thunder for quite a few minutes, but he finally calmed himself.

"Margaret, it is imperative that you tell me the truth." John's words were quiet, but forceful. "I ask you these things because I care about you. Please allow me to be your husband."

Margaret nodded, and gazed out the window as the cab drove them home.

She did feel ill. She felt quite faint and clammy, in fact. And indeed, she might have fallen if John had not been there to catch her. But that was not the point, was it?

Papa had shown her the basics of geometry one summer, and showed her how one might use a compass to draw a circle around a polygon, touching its every vertex without cutting into the shape itself. She was circumscribed, too, as though an invisible boundary had been drawn around her. A boundary composed of thoughtful gifts and calm admonishments.

She said none of this to John, of course. This was a conversation she should have with her mother, not her husband. How was one intended to respond to the confinement of marriage?

Author's note:

Finally, another chapter from me. Thank you to everyone who has continued to leave reviews and encouragement. I have no intent on giving up on this story, but life has been rather hectic for the past couple of years. I did change jobs, and I am doing much better in this different, non-dysfunctional workplace, but I am extremely busy as we are understaffed. Still, it's nice to have a manager I respect and admire. However, long hours at work have not left me a lot of free time. Given the amount of research I do for each chapter, as well as the fact that I like to write an entire chapter in one, long sitting, finding the time to write has not been possible. And then there's the inertia problem. I find it hard to start again, after having come to a complete stop.

However, once again my life is on the brink of change, and although I will be continuing to work at the same job, I should be able to carve out more free time. I am thrilled about this!

A couple weeks I started a new story, in an attempt to warm up and get back in gear. I thought it might be helpful to start with something less research-heavy, and less daunting, so that I could work my way back into writing. I will be alternating updates between this story and that (because I am also excited to share that story). I look forward to any reviews you are generous enough to write. Best, Tintinnabula

Chapter references:

You'll notice there is not a lot of action in this chapter. Please bear with me. I introduce Spitalfields and the Ragged School for a very good reason. 😊 I have a plan!

I pulled a lot of the information I used to write this chapter from Dickens. In his magazine Household Words he wrote an extended essay about the Spitalfields weavers. He visited a master's house, including the rooms were verbal deals were made to sell completed goods, and two weaver's homes. The first home was quite run down and represented the poor conditions many workers lived in, and he described the numbing role played by alcohol for many weavers. Dickens also visited a more skilled weaver, one who wove damask, who was presumably better paid and lived a life that was less impoverished. I chose not to include such a weaver in this chapter, as even the goods produced by such a weaver were not on part with those made by power looms.

By the 1850s the weaving industry in Spitalfields was in serious decline, as much production had been moved to Lancashire. There was also competition from French goods, which were sometimes reputed to be off higher quality. In the 1860s the tariff on French silk was removed, and that was the death knell for Spitalfields. One hopes these weavers were able to transition to other jobs.

Ragged schools were started by missionaries in London in the early 1800s and by the 1850s there were 40 of them. Their goal was to get kids off the street, as schooling for ages 5 through 12 did not become universal in England until 1870. Poor kids either got up to no good during the day, or worked selling matches and trinkets. The ragged schools provided basic instruction (although the teacher was the only one with a book, as the kids could not be trusted not to sell any copy they were given), and for older boys instruction in certain trades. For older girls, instruction was in sewing and skills needed to raise a family, and rarely, art.

You can read Dicken's essay on Spitalfields and his letter about ragged schools by searching online with the terms "Dickens Spitalfields" or "Dickens Letter Ragged School." The Spitalfields essay has an engraving showing a weaver's house on Pelham Street.

Pelham Street in the East End of London is known today as Woodseer Street, and intersects with the well-known Brick Lane. It seems that this part of London has been the home of immigrant communities for hundreds of years.

Hesiod's Theogeny is the story of the Greek Gods and very interesting. Lots of eating of children, multigenerationally.