“Of course, sir.”
“A printing press? A machine? How can this be? Only a few weeks ago, sir, you spoke so eloquently in the House against mechanical looms, which were depriving the weavers of their livelihood. I had assumed you applied the same elevated principles to the conduct of your own life. How can you live with yourself, sir, knowing how many men might have been employed in copying your doggerel? You have condemned hundreds of scribes and their families to starvation, have you not?”
“Your lordship is jesting, surely.”
“I am in earnest, sir. By what right do you condemn the mill-owner for doing what you yourself have done? Or are you, as I suspect, sir, a hypocrite, a poseur, and an ignoramus?”
Byron’s handsome brow flushed, and he glowered up at his critic. “You make light of the matter, sir, but it is you who have made criminals of these desperate men. You have hung them from a gibbet for the crime of attempting to feed their starving families!”
“What do you call a man who assaults and even murders his employer, who smashes his machines and foments revolution, if not a criminal? You have not answered my question: can you enlighten me, sir, why it is that you may profit by selling books made by machines, but the mill-owner may not sell his stockings?”
“As I said in the House, sir, it is also the case that the stockings produced by machine are of an inferior quality.”
“What is that to you, sir! If a man wishes to purchase a pair of ill-made stockings at a lower price, instead of buying hand-woven stockings, it is his own affair entirely. What a feeble argument! Shall you dictate to your fellow Englishman what they shall sell and what they shall buy? A Whig who calls himself a friend of humanity is always a despot in disguise.”
Byron was formulating his reply but Delingpole would not wait. “Cat got your tongue, sir? Well, we shall meet again at White Lodge, I expect. As long as you’ve no objection to the wheel, that is, and can take a carriage to Richmond. Good day to you, sir!”
With an air of triumph, Delingpole swept Gibson down the stairs to the lobby.
“Yes, but the weavers...” Gibson protested feebly.
“The weavers will have to find new employment, just as the scribes must have done,” answered Delingpole brusquely. “Your great-grandsire wore a ruff around his neck, and your father wore a wig, but you wear neither. And yet I did not have to step over the desiccated bodies of any ruff-makers or wigmakers on my way to the House today—did you? And any rogue can write a book. No offense, Mr. Gibson.”
“Oh, none taken, sir. I am a lazy rogue, and I own it. Or rather, I aspire to be a gentleman, and to not have to work at all. What would be the consequences for society if machines could replace all human labour? You have given me a lot to think about, your lordship.”
* * * * * * *
The academy had been in operation for almost a year, and its routines were well established. The long broad tables had gone upstairs to the cutting room, where they were needed, and small round tables brought in instead. Fanny had prevailed in her desire to arrange the students in small groups, with the most skilled girls keeping an eye on the younger ones; and when Matron or Mrs. Blodgett were called away, they knew they could talk quietly amongst themselves, without reprimand from their instructress.
Looking back upon her earlier apprehensions, recalling the fears and self-doubts which had assailed her before the academy opened, Fanny acknowledged that Mrs. Butters had been right; she was not only able to be a sewing instructress, but was able to perceive and suggest many small improvements to the efficient management of the enterprise.
Upon her return from her fortnight in Northamptonshire, Fanny, Matron and Eliza Bellingham all worked together in the most amicable fashion. The results, Fanny thought, spoke for themselves.
William Gibson had brought Fanny a paddle-shaped fan from China, which he had purchased from a sailor in Portsmouth. It was made of tightly stretched silk, fine enough to be semi-transparent, and upon which some skilful hand had wrought a delightful specimen of embroidery. Fanny imagined that the court ladies in Peking might refresh themselves on a warm day with just such a fan as this.
She brought it to the academy to show to her pupils, showing them how the portrait was equally flawless on both sides. Thousands of tiny stitches rendered the needles of a contorted pine tree, in whose branches perched a golden bird with colourful feathers, which Mr. Gibson confirmed was the mythical phoenix.
This gift, which Fanny treasured, spoke to her of her friend’s esteem and his respect for the artistry, patience, and skill of those who created pictures with needle and thread. As Fanny remarked to Eliza Bellingham, while it was true that only men had the ability to erect structures made with marble and wood, women, feebler in strength but perhaps no less lacking in imagination and the desire to gratify it, were also creators, even though they only worked with fabric and thread.
“Very true, Miss Price,” was the answer, “and a bonnet or a lady’s gown is constructed, no less than a building is. Not only that, we dressmakers can make a lady appear larger, or smaller, or taller, than she really is!”
“And look at the miracles stay-makers accomplish with lady’s bosoms!” laughed Fanny.
The most gratifying aspect of her work was the undoubted success of the introduction of doll’s clothes to the shop. Even when customers did not indulge in new outfits for themselves, they were nevertheless often persuaded to buy a doll for their daughters, and these dolls, as Fanny put it, were like little ambassadresses
