Tobias rocked back on his heels. “I’m hoping it will be a rather big scheme.”
Mrs. Quinn moved out of the room and down a hallway, motioning for them to follow. “It’s a long story, I’m afraid.” She led them to a kitchen where she put a kettle on the stove. A large kitchen table scuffed from wear took up most of the space, and everyone took a seat around it.
“I’d like to hear it,” Maggie said.
Mrs. Quinn sucked her cheeks in and blew a heavy breath out. “When I was a girl, learning the trade, silk was quite in demand, and we never worried. My mother made the finest silk in all of England, and ladies like you wore her designs.”
Mr. Quinn leaned over the table with a groan. “But cotton is easier and faster to make.”
Mrs. Quinn nodded. “Silk is expensive, a luxury to those who can have it, and we can ask a pretty penny for it.”
Maggie understood. “If there are those willing to pay.”
The Quinns nodded.
“When we married,” Mrs. Quinn said, “we had to live in a four-room tenement with three other weaver families. One family and one loom per room. That’s where Mr. Blake found us. He was looking for weavers.”
Tobias clucked. “I was looking for thebestweavers.”
“And you found ’em.” Mrs. Quinn’s pride dripped from every word.
Tobias tapped the table three times. “The Conners and the DeRoses and the Quinns. The best silk weavers in England.”
“Aye,” Mr. Quinn said, “I s’pose they’re good, too.”
Mrs. Quinn nodded to the left. “The DeRoses live on that side of us.” She nodded in the opposite direction. “And the Conners over there.” She sighed. “It’s nice to keep the loom to a single room. I don’t have to worry about Murphy knocking into anything when he runs about.”
Images from Tobias’s father’s cotton mill floated up into Maggie’s memory. “Does Murphy not work the loom as well?”
Mrs. Quinn nodded. “He’s learning, and he helps, but Mr. Blake insists he go to school some hours, too, with the DeRose girls.”
Maggie shot a shy glance at her husband. He studied the ceiling, his cheeks red.
Mrs. Quinn rose when the kettle screamed and prepared four cups of tea, which she set on a tray in the middle of the table. “Mr. Blake, since you’re here, perhaps you can tell us if you’ve found any more buyers?”
Tobias scratched his neck. “Ah. Not yet. I’m working on it. I’ve been rather busy with the designs of late.”
Mr. Quinn tapped the side of his teacup. “And have you found storage yet?”
“Ah—”
Mrs. Quinn rose and bustled down the hall. “Come see, my lady.”
Maggie followed.
Mrs. Quinn opened a door to a small room filled with bolts of colorful, patterned silk.
Maggie gasped. Where Mr. Blake’s storage room had housed row after row of uniform trees, the Quinns hid a rainbow in their spare room. “Have you done all these?”
“Aye. Us and the DeRoses and the Conners. But they don’t have extra rooms in their cottages, so we store it all here.”
Maggie felt a warmth behind her and turned. Tobias stood close, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are these all your designs?” she asked.
He nodded. She was surrounded by artists. Again. But this time, she didn’t mind as much. What they were doing seemed beautiful, a way of life, art as a means of living.
Mr. Quinn’s voice rose from the kitchen. “We’ll be out of space soon, as you see, Mr. Blake.”
“I see. I see. I’ll”—his jaw tightened—“find a solution.”
