Lace from Nottingham to Calais

I – The Luddites in Nottingham

It’s May 12, 1812. Yesterday, British Prime Minister Spencer PERCEVAL was assassinated by a Luddite from Liverpool. This morning, under pouring rain, I took the first steamship leaving Calais. The swell rocked the ship; clutching my seat, I had no choice but to reflect. I’m neither headed to London nor to Liverpool, but to Nottingham where workers celebrate the prime minister’s death with songs and dances. Why such hatred? I’m aware that England is undergoing a severe economic crisis, but what are the underlying reasons? Once I arrived in Dover, I headed to the coach stop. The weather remains dismal; spring plays tricks on us. In the coach taking me to Nottingham, I tried reading various newspapers, but my grasp of English prevented me from understanding it all. I’ll see when I get there. From my hotel room, I can hear the songs and joyful shouts of the workers. I go downstairs and join the crowd. Fortunately, one man’s accent suggests he might be of French origin. Indeed, Georges MARTIN followed his beloved Hannah to the suburbs of Nottingham. I agree to share their meal and have brought some French delicacies to contribute. While Hannah busies herself with cooking, Georges explains that these riots didn’t start yesterday. They began 12 years earlier when food prices were prohibitively high, causing famines and heated spirits. For four days, stocks were looted, and soldiers were helpless. Last year, led by Ned Ludd, the Luddite movement began in Nottingham following the death of John WESTLEY on November 10. Craftsmen blame factory owners for promoting unemployment. Masked, at night, the Luddites destroy machines, raw materials, and finished goods to combat the industrialization stealing their jobs. The response is ruthless with prison sentences, hard labor, and even death penalties. Rewards are given to those who turn in a Luddite. The assassination of the prime minister is the outcome of these tensions. Georges and Hannah work in a tulle factory, one targeted by the Luddites. They are very poor, overproduction diminishes their wages, and the treats from my French parents to a fellow French are much appreciated. After a hearty meal, Georges confides that some tulle manufacturers are secretly preparing to cross the Channel to set up in France. Gallantly, Georges insists on escorting me back to my hotel. I gladly accept; the streets are not safe for a woman. At the hotel door, we exchange addresses, promising to write to each other. After a good night’s sleep and an English breakfast, I decide to explore Nottingham. I hail a carriage. The driver takes me to tourist spots: churches, castles, picturesque streets. But what I want to see are the city’s working districts. After some negotiation and a handsome payment, he drives me to the outskirts. The farther we get from the city center, the more dilapidated the houses become. The driver stops, unwilling to go further. He points out the landscape. We’re on a small rise, and makeshift huts made of scraps stretch as far as the eye can see. These destitute people have nothing left; they’ve nothing to lose, and we’d be easy prey. The driver takes me back safely. I give him a trinket, a souvenir from France, and head to my room with a heavy heart. Tomorrow, I’ll head home, but I won’t forget to write to Georges and Hannah.

II – Our Correspondence from 1813 – 1814

Georges and I exchanged letters regularly. We touched upon various topics – the weather, changing seasons, and particularly the events unfolding on both sides of the Channel.

On July 1st, 1813, I visited his parents, elderly farmers settled in the marshlands of Saint Omer. On a flat-bottomed boat, they took me on a serene ride through the waterways. For the occasion, they’d dressed in their Sunday best, and so had I. Marie and I flaunted our lace parasols. It was a beautiful day; the sun shone bright, and a gentle breeze rippled across the water’s surface. Parcels of land, lush with vegetables, appeared one after another amidst the maze of canals. The houses, tucked amidst the greenery, looked well-maintained, but it was evident that money was scarce. Hector and Marie, too old now to manage their land, had leased it to Petit Jean, a local boy, in exchange for vegetables they needed to get by. Petit Jean was still too young to be conscripted into the Emperor’s army. Plus, his clubfoot wouldn’t make him a promising soldier.

In a detailed letter, I described my journey among the Audomarois, his parents’ advice, Napoleon BONAPARTE’s relentless war against « the rest of the world. » I wrote about our Emperor’s victories and defeats, about Calais with its fishy scents, Saint Pierre les Calais with its fields and vegetable gardens. I spoke of unemployment, the poverty that France too endured, my job as a sales assistant for Miss BONNET, a corset maker, and about my articles that societal propriety and oppressive male dominance prevented from being published.

Months passed without a word from Georges. I eagerly awaited the postman’s arrival every day. At long last, the eagerly anticipated dispatch arrived. After the customary apologies, Georges explained that following a challenging pregnancy, Hannah had given birth to a healthy baby boy, named Michel Hector Georges. I was moved to tears – Michelle is my middle name. But let’s put aside the sentimentality for now. The situation in Nottingham had improved; employers had raised wages. Of course, there were still those unyielding rebels continuing the fight across the country, but the crackdown remained as ruthless as ever. Georges, skilled in operating the HEATHCOAT machine, now worked on the LEAVERS machine. This machine produced higher quality tulle. His wage reflected his expertise, and he even considered moving to a better home. His employer, Robert WEBSTER, held him in high regard and even asked Georges to teach him French.

This heartening news reassured me. Georges, Hannah, and Michel were doing well, their life was improving, and the looming dangers seemed to be retreating. However, it did pique my curiosity: why was this Englishman keen on learning French?

III – The Letter That Changes Everything

Throughout 1814, in our exchanges, we discussed little Michel, George’s elderly parents, my employer allowing me more freedom to focus on my articles, and a bit about the events in our respective countries. Hannah wished to converse with me during our next meeting and was learning French, albeit with difficulty but much persistence. We had truly become close friends.

On October 15th, 1815, a letter from Georges brought news that could alter our futures. His trust in sharing it with me was moving. That year was immensely hard for the tulle manufacturing workers due to overproduction, protectionism, and customs duties, leading to the industry’s collapse, increased unemployment, and rapidly returning poverty. George’s boss, Robert WEBSTER, along with his associates James CLARCK and Richard BONNINGTON, were plotting to smuggle a disassembled machine. They aimed to set up in Calais, the nearest French town to England. Georges was to arrive in Calais by early November, tasked with buying a building for his employers.

Snow had fallen heavily overnight, and a biting wind chilled the air. Outside the maritime station, I waited for Georges. It was the 10th of November. In the crowd, I recognized Georges’ hat, lovingly knitted by Hannah. After customary greetings, I led him to a well-regarded guesthouse. Tonight, we would dine with my employer, Miss BONNET. Her cozy apartment, located above her shop, had a main room featuring a large fireplace, two comfortable chairs on each side, age-old furniture, and knick-knacks that rendered warmth. A kitchenette and a comfortably furnished bedroom completed the layout. With Georges’ permission, I had confided in Miss BONNET. While she cooked, she listened keenly to our conversation, contemplating the potential of selling cheaper tulle products due to mechanization. I mentioned I’d inquired about buildings for sale and had located a sizable property on Calais’ main thoroughfare, Rue Royale. Tomorrow, I’d accompany him to meet the owner. Miss BONNET proved to be a culinary magician; from mere potatoes and a piece of bacon, she conjured up a feast. Our evening’s discussions revolved around little Michel, his employers’ venture, and life in Calais. Georges’ accent amused us greatly. After bidding Miss BONNET goodnight, Georges escorted me home before returning to his lodging. We agreed to meet at 11 am. That night, sleep evaded me amidst a whirlwind of thoughts.

At 11 am sharp, we stood outside the building for sale. But after inspecting it, Georges leaned towards another property on the outskirts, wanting to avoid unwanted attention. We took a carriage ride around the city, visiting notable landmarks. He was a bit grumpy; the snow-laden roads made it impossible for him to visit his family. I assured him I’d visit them once the weather improved. That evening, we dined again with the gracious Miss BONNET. Today, I took charge of cooking, pleasing her immensely. She engaged Georges in a conversation about the workings of the tulle machine, its quality, and the cost of the coveted fabric. The evening went splendidly. Georges, due to depart early the next morning, took his leave. At the door, he promised to notify me of their arrival date. I helped Miss BONNET clean up and returned home, knowing many sleepless nights lay ahead, eagerly awaiting letters from my friends.

IV – June 18, 1816, D-Day

Georges had sent me a message, an invitation for Michel’s birthday. But little Michel will be turning four in the fall. This message makes me suspicious; it’s a signal for the English landing.

Living ten minutes away from the beach, the humidity clings to my skin, and the breeze is cool at this time of night. I traverse the dark alleys, familiar with every pothole. As I approach the sea, the moonless night takes on an ink-like hue. They should be docking near the jetty. The lighthouse sends a bright beam out to sea—will it suffice to guide them? I lie down on the damp sand, thinking of Miss BONNET and the long black coat she lent me. I blend into the darkness and wait. At 3:45 am, I hear the sound of oars cutting through water and the grunt of a breathless man. A few meters more, and they’re on the sand. The lighthouse’s light reveals the beach scene—four men disembarking from a boat, money changing hands. Pieces of wood and large bags are extracted from the boat and placed on the ground. After a final wave, the master fisherman turns the boat around and fades into the dark sea.

The fourth man is Georges. Knowing I’m nearby, he looks for me, finds me, helps me up—the waterlogged coat weighs me down. We approach the three Englishmen. Respectfully, Georges introduces me. As gentlemen, they express their gratitude for my assistance. I’m to lead them to the building Georges purchased. Footsteps in the sand make us turn. A man approaches; it’s little Jean come to help. He’s grown taller, more muscular. Georges and Jean carry the equipment, while the English employers manage the bags. I lead the way, trying to avoid the pitfalls of the path, though a few muttered curses suggest I wasn’t entirely successful. Finally, we stand before the building. Georges had given me a key, allowing me to pre-place oil lamps and tools inside. Despite my protests, Mr. WEBSTER slips some coins into my hand to cover the expenses. I bid them farewell and head home. After a hot tea, I go to bed, knowing Georges will fetch me in a few hours.

Of course, the ever-helpful Miss BONNET accompanies us. At the building, with pride, Georges produces a large key from his pocket and, after a couple of turns, the door creaks open. The rooms are compact. The Leavers machine, assembled by Georges throughout the night, dominates the space. Raw materials and tools lean against walls. On the first floor, mattresses are strewn on the beaten earth where Georges and soon-to-arrive workers will sleep. The second floor holds an office, and the third is reserved for the English gentlemen.

Mr. WEBSTER sends Georges to sleep and leads us to the office. He speaks French quite fluently. Miss BONNET discusses purchase and selling prices, even offering her shop for initial sales. As they converse, I daydream about the future of these ambitious men and their potential success.

The clock strikes eleven from Notre Dame’s tower; it’s time to leave. Miss BONNET showers them with courtesies. For my part, I secure a meeting with these gentlemen to discuss their project’s progress. We say our goodbyes and head back to the shop. With pen and ledger in hand, Miss BONNET crunches numbers, envisioning her future. As for me, in a few weeks, I’ll return for an interview. Customers keep us busy all afternoon. I return home exhausted but elated.

As I lie in bed, sleep eludes me. My mind races with thoughts and potential questions for the English gentlemen.

V – These Gentlemen from Nottingham

Six months have passed since our gentlemen settled in Calais, and much has transpired in this time. Other Englishmen from Nottinghamshire and Kent have smuggled in, laden with raw materials, spare parts, and tools. They know full well that if caught, they will be hung, drawn, and quartered. The local harbor authorities turn a blind eye to this trade. Louis XVIII has reinstated free trade, with customs duties once again reasonable. England relinquished the death penalty for smugglers.

This morning, a carriage arrives to fetch me for an exclusive interview. My hands are full: my parasol, a bag entrusted to me by Miss BONNET, my notebooks. The coachman helps lighten my load so I can climb aboard. He places Miss BONNET’s bag next to me and sets off. Instead of heading to the gentlemen’s building, we move towards Saint Pierre-les-Calais. He reassures me it’s by the “Milords’” orders. We leave Calais via the Richelieu gate; fields dominate the landscape, but more houses are being built. We stop outside a residence; right next to it, a large structure is under construction, evidently too broad to be a mere home.

Mr. Richard BONONGTON awaits at the doorstep, greeting me with a poor-accented « Bonjour Mademoiselle. » Inside, a tastefully decorated room awaits. He gestures for me to sit and rejoins his associates on a sofa.

« Good morning, gentlemen. How are you? »

Mr. WEBSTER, the only one fluent in French, speaks up.

« Better now. Our plan was to move to a larger space to set up several tulle machines. But the noise pollution hastened our relocation to Saint Pierre-les-Calais. English investors believe in our venture and financially support us. »

« I didn’t realize the machine was that noisy. »

« At night, when the town sleeps, it becomes prominent, and the vibrations travel to neighboring buildings. Plus, we’ve installed one on every floor. Three machines run day and night. »

« Indeed, Georges didn’t mention. Speaking of which, where is he? »

« He’s fetching his wife and child; they should return soon. »

« Can you discuss the factory? How many machines will be installed? Do you have plans to show? »

« Twelve Leavers machines will be on the ground floor, finishing workshops on the first, and storage under the roof. In France, patents easily protect our work. We’ve filed several, along with Messrs. HEATHCOAT and LEAVERS. Our plans are part of these patents. »

« How do you see the future? »

« We have quality tulle makers joining us, who, in turn, plan to start their enterprises. The French are eager to learn and work. We hire ‘Compagnons’, part of guilds training high-quality workers. Our wives have joined, passing their skills onto French women. Yes, this industry has a future. »

« I’m delighted to hear. By the way, Miss BONNET asked me to bring you this bag. »

Mr. BONINGTON upends the bag onto a chair, revealing a tangle of frilly garments. I’m mortified. I grab a nearby fan and attempt to regain my composure. Mr. WEBSTER rises to admire Miss BONNET’s craftsmanship. The jokes shared between Mr. BONINGTON and Mr. CLARK, however, seem lost on Mr. WEBSTER.

« Excellent work! Please commend these skilled ladies on my behalf. I’ll contact Miss BONNET soon. It’s 4 o’clock; would you join us for tea? »

« With great pleasure, gentlemen. »

Rebecca WEBSTER and Mary BONINGTON join us as a maid serves tea. The porcelain is incredibly delicate; the spoons are silver. I’m struck by the craftsmanship. Over an hour passes as the ladies try their hand at French, while I, having improved thanks to Georges, understand more than I speak.

Rebecca summons a carriage, wishing to shop at Miss BONNET’s. I bid the gentlemen and Mary farewell. Rebecca remains quiet, which I appreciate, knowing that the future of Calais and its lace is written. We enter the boutique, and within minutes, the counters are buried under lingerie. I gesture to the ladies and slip away. Back home, I collapse on the chaise lounge, letting my mind wander to tomorrow…

VI – Journey to the Future

Sitting comfortably, the fire crackles in the fireplace, logs popping, sending dozens of sparks illuminating the room. I feel sleep slowly overtaking me.

I soar through time and space, no longer restrained, but a mere instrument of my imagination. 1816, 17, 19…

1825: Nine English manufacturers have set up shop in Calais…

1830: 113 manufacturers, of which 65 are English, use 256 machines.

1838: FERGUSSON and MARTYN adapt the JACQUARD process to the LEAVERS machine.

1840: A steam engine starts operating the machines; the first one is installed at WEBSTER and PEARSON’s.

New trades emerge: assemblers, extractors, wheeleuses, bobbin pressers, wappeurs for preparation; sketchers, designers, cardboard punchers, tulle makers, mechanics for manufacturing; inspectors, embroiderers, dyers, menders, thread-pullers, scalers for finishing; samplers, folders, packers for shipping lace.

1850, 60, 70, 80, 90, 1900, 2000… 2020.

I wake up abruptly, my heart racing, breathing fast and uneven. What just happened? Did I time travel, or was it just my imagination? Slowly calming down, I take something to write and note down my experience. After rereading it, I note many of the terms are in English. Understandably, given they not only brought machinery but their habits and vocabulary as well. What do these trades entail? Perhaps another dream will reveal it.

VII – Dream or Reality

The clock strikes 4 pm. Glancing around my apartment, I notice the accumulated dust and the floor covered with street debris. Quickly, I grab a duster, pail, and broom, and within an hour, everything gleams. During the week, it’s always a choice between cleaning and writing after a day at the boutique. Writing always wins. After some light shopping and dinner, I head to bed. Sleep overtakes me the moment my head hits the pillow. In the morning, nothing new to report. As I sip my coffee, my mind drifts off, and soon I’m at the boutique. Clients come and go, mostly leaving without buying. Mountains of frilly garments accumulate. As always, Miss BONNET is constantly chattering. She flits around, talking non-stop, wearing me out. It’s finally closing time. I pull on my coat and head for the door. The sea breeze and crashing waves soothe me. Autumn is on its way.

Back home with tea in one hand and writing materials in the other, I settle on the chaise lounge. My eyes slowly close, and Morpheus whisks me away.

A carriage drops me off at the WEBSTER and PEARSON company. As usual, Robert WEBSTER greets me. His hair is now gray, his face lined. He must be around 60! What time period is this?

Following my host, I enter the massive building. The noise is deafening with dozens of machines running simultaneously. A myriad of workers bustle around these steam-powered giants. It seems to be around 1840-42. We head to an office where the noise subsides. Mr. PEARSON greets me, his French impeccable. He introduces me to their leading tulle maker, Robert WEST. He briefly explains how modernizing the machines saved them time. I have so many questions!

« Can you tell me about the lace professions? »

« Of course, there are three steps: preparation, execution, and finishing. The preparation is done by assemblers, extractors, wheeleuses, bobbin pressers, and wappeurs. For manufacturing, we have sketchers, designers, cardboard punchers, tulle makers, and mechanics. Finishing involves inspectors, embroiderers, dyers, menders, thread-pullers, and scalers. Dyers and laundries have opened across the region, while other professions are conducted by women at home. Embroiderers work in factories. »

As I listen, the gentlemen’s faces grow blurry, and the noise fades to be replaced by the crackling fireplace. I awaken with a smile on my face: I have much to write!

As the years go by, this industry will continue to evolve, providing livelihoods for thousands. But like all things, it will eventually decline.

Sources: [Several online sources related to Calais lace history]

I might have missed noting some sites, and I apologize.