“Lacemakers have a patron saint?” Lori asked. “I didn’t know that.”
I chimed in. “After the Protestant revolution in England, Catholic saints were politically incorrect. Some plants that were associated with them got renamed. Which could be why the flower got transferred from a Catholic saint named Anne to a queen with the same name.” This was something I had only recently discovered. Even when you think you know everything there is to know about a plant, there’s always something new to learn.
“Well, then, let’s see what we have here.” Christine got down to work immediately, identifying each of the laces by the way it was made—bobbin lace, needle lace, tatted lace, crocheted and knitted lace—and then by how old it was, generally.
“To get really specific about the age,” she said, “I’d have to do a detailed study. But there are some things we can say about these right away.” She held the lady’s lace cap in one hand and what she called a fichu—a triangular lace scarf worn around the neck—in the other. “Judging just from the style, I think these are the two oldest pieces. They may have been made in the early 1800s. The fichu is tambour embroidery with silk threads on a fine net, and it’s almost perfect. Which is amazing, given its obvious age. It’s two hundred years old, give or take a decade.”
“Somebody’s family heirloom, I’m sure,” Lori said in a tone that was almost wistful.
“Just imagine,” Ruby murmured, fingering the lace. “A woman wore this, two hundred years ago.”
“Tambour embroidery?” I asked curiously.
“That’s right,” Christine said. “To make it, a piece of net was stretched tight across an embroidery hoop—tight as a drum, hence the name, tambour. The embroidery was done through the spaces in the net, using a tiny hook and very fine silk thread, colored. Beads were often used, as well, and colored threads, especially gilt. The work was popular from the mid-eighteenth century until the 1830s.” She made a face. “Then a Frenchman invented a machine that turned out a piece about a hundred and fifty times faster than a tambour worker.”
Lori sat down at the end of the table. “That’s the story of technology, isn’t it? Machines replacing craftspeople.” She waved her hand at the spinning wheel that sat off to one side. “Like the spinning machines that replaced the wheel.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Although of course, spinning with a wheel replaced hand spindling.”
“A natural progression, isn’t it?” Ruby asked. “From spindle to spinning wheel to machine.”
“Exactly.” Christine nodded. “Several of my textile students are interested in tambour work as an art form. They’re doing some interesting things with it.” She pushed the older pieces to one side and pulled another group of laces toward her. “Now, these are from the middle of the nineteenth century, I’d say. They’re mostly crocheted lace, some knitted, with silk, cotton, and linen thread.” She picked up a cream-colored piece of airy filigreed lace and turned it in her fingers. “And there are several pieces of bobbin lace, like this one. Do you know how that’s made?”
Lori nodded yes, but Ruby and I chorused “No,” and Ruby added, “Tell us, please.”
“The lacemaker worked on a pillow she held on her lap. The pattern—it was called a ‘pricking card’—was pinned to the pillow. The threads were pinned over the pattern with large dressmaker pins. The thread was wound around little bobbins—bone, in the old days, later wood or even plastic. The lacemaker passed pairs of bobbins over and under each other, creating the stitches as she followed the pattern. The more pairs of bobbins, the greater the intricacy of the pattern.” She put the lace on the table and smoothed it with her hand. “If you want to see a famous painting of the process, take a close look at Vermeer’s The Lacemaker. It’s quite beautiful. And accurate.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn to make bobbin lace,” Lori said thoughtfully. “Maybe now is the time.”
“I’ll be glad to show you what I know about it,” Christine said. “One of my students is working with bobbin lace, and we’ve found several very good tutorials online.” She gestured to the largest group of pieces. “Now, these look to be the most recent. They were made between 1860 and 1900, I’d say. This embroidered bridal veil—see the dual initials?—is quite lovely, and very well done. The quality of the other pieces is good, but perhaps a bit uneven. I wonder if these might be pattern samples.” She leaned back with a smile. “But that doesn’t make the collection any less valuable, of course. Altogether, China, I’d say that you have an important group here—not in terms of money, perhaps, but as an illustration of more than two centuries of women’s needlework. You might consider framing some and hanging them in your shop. They’d make a lovely decoration. They could help to enhance the historical importance of your building, as well.” She added, “I noticed that you now have a historical plaque beside the door.”
“I’d love to do that,” I said, struck by the idea. “You’re right—they’d be gorgeous, framed.”
“We could hang some in the tearoom,” Ruby suggested. “There’s more wall space there.”
I nodded, agreeing. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to tell where the pieces were made.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Christine replied. “Unless there’s some external documentation—a list of the contents, say, or a diary. Many lacemakers kept records of what they made. It was a business, of course. Lace could be an important source of income.”
“We haven’t found a diary,” I said. “All we have are the laces—and one earring.” I reached into the chest and took it out.
Ruby peered at it. “Pretty! That’s an amethyst, isn’t it?”
“Looks like it,” Lori said, as Ruby passed it to her. “What lovely filigree work.”
“Do keep an eye out for some sort of written
