“You’ll remember the willows, then, although they might not have been coppiced at that time.”
“They weren’t.” The path curved to follow the riverbank eastward. A little way ahead, he glimpsed a neat stone cottage with a square stone building beside it. “The Osiery, I assume?”
Caitlin nodded. “The Pooles are Mrs. Poole, her son, William, who’s eighteen, and her daughter, Hattie, who’s twenty now. Mrs. Poole’s a widow and a distant connection of the Bellamys. After the death of Captain Poole, who was in the merchant navy, was confirmed, Timms went to Bristol and invited the Pooles to the Hall to recover from their grief.”
That was definitely the sort of thing Timms would have done.
“As it happened, Mrs. Poole was born nearby, and her family had been basket makers for generations, until they died out. She noticed the old willows and took up basket weaving, which she remembered from when she was a child. Nowadays, she and Hattie are regarded as experts in the art, and William manages the osier beds and oversees the preparation of the withies. The larger building is their workshop and storehouse.”
“I see.” He considered that history, then mildly observed, “If Mrs. Poole’s family were basket makers, she would know the ins and outs of the business.”
Caitlin nodded. “She definitely does.”
That, he reflected, seemed to be a theme at the Hall. Not only did every business owner know their business, but each was passionately devoted to their trade.
They crossed the cobbled yard before the larger building and the cottage. The cottage door stood open. Caitlin tugged the bell chain that hung beside it.
The clanging drew a plain-faced, dark-haired woman to the doorway. She was neatly if austerely dressed, with her hair pulled back in a severe bun, and there was a calmness about her as she nodded and smiled at Caitlin, then bobbed a curtsy to Gregory. “Mr. Cynster?”
He smiled. “Mrs. Poole, I take it. I hope we’ve called at an opportune time. I fear I know nothing about basket making and would be grateful if you could give me an introduction sufficient to appreciate your craft.”
Caitlin wasn’t surprised to see Mrs. Poole respond positively to that formal invitation. Lucinda was a very reserved person, and the note Gregory had struck—whether by luck or design—was just the right one to have her unbend.
“By all means, sir.” Lucinda waved toward the workshop and stepped out to join them. “Allow me to explain what we do.”
Caitlin trailed after the pair as Lucinda guided Gregory through the mysteries of basket making, from the cutting of the young willow canes—“My son, William, does most of the harvesting these days”—to sorting the lengths into a series of stalls to the drying racks.
“We air-dry the canes until they’re brown. After that, they can be stored for however long we wish, although for us, that’s rarely more than a few months.” Lucinda moved on to the long troughs where canes were soaking. “In order to weave, we soak the canes in water again, until the ends can be bent without the bark cracking.” She demonstrated. “So these are almost ready, which is good, as Hattie and I plan to start on our next baskets this afternoon.”
Lucinda led the way to where Hattie—a fresh-faced young woman with blond curls, her plain gown protected by a thick apron—stood at a table, her fingers flicking as she expertly worked the top of a hamper, creating a strong, whipped rim.
“I see.” Gregory watched as if mesmerized. When Hattie finished her edging and tied the last cane off, he raised his gaze to her face, smiled, and reached for the hamper. “May I?”
Hattie blushed and waved, inviting him to take the piece.
Caitlin watched as he lifted it, admiring the even lines, then poked at the weave, testing its strength, before hefting the hamper, noting the weight.
Confident in the quality, Lucinda proudly stated, “That’s part of an order from Farringdon Hall.” She proceeded to list all the various locals and stately homes the Osiery supplied. “And of course, anything we have left over goes quick as a wink at the Northampton market.”
“I’m not surprised.” With another smile for Hattie, Gregory set the hamper down. “As I said, I’m no expert, but these are strong yet lightweight and obviously well-made. I’ve never seen better.”
Judging that to be the right note on which to end their visit, Caitlin asked, “Is there anything you need me to add to the orders later this week?”
Mrs. Poole turned to her. “Some of those long-handled iron hooks to manage the bundles would be helpful, and perhaps more hooks for hanging.” She waved toward the ceiling. “I was thinking we might try hoisting canes up so we can dry more at a time.”
Eyeing the rafters from which such hooks would hang, Caitlin nodded. “I’ll see if I can locate something suitable.”
She and Gregory took their leave and walked on along the riverbank. After pulling out her list for today, she added Mrs. Poole’s request.
Strolling beside her, Gregory waited until Caitlin tucked the list away to say, “That’s another small business I would never have thought profitable, yet I take it the Pooles are financially successful.”
“Surprisingly so. You’ll see it in the accounts, but part of the Poole magic is the connection to her family, the Washburns, who have been in the industry for generations. Mrs. Poole’s been quick to see the advantage in keeping the name going—they call one type of basket they make a Washburn basket. Even though the Osiery has only been in operation for six years, the Pooles’ work is well-known in the area and is now much sought-after. The Osiery commands the highest prices for basket ware in the county—possibly in the country.”
The path followed the curve of the river. Gregory eyed the water rushing past on their right. “I hadn’t realized the river rose so high.”
“It’s often high at this time of year. I’ve been warned that, along this stretch, the banks can be quite treacherous during winter.”
“When we visited, we used to swim along here”—he looked back along the river—“but that was in summer. I don’t think I’ve ever come this way in winter.”
