Jonathan Todd & Co.

JONATHAN TODD & CO.

Two Continents, Two Companies, One Family

CHAPTER 1

JONATHAN

Glasgow, May 1, 1754

I should have been jubilant. And indeed I was, for all of ten minutes, after I’d made my first sale of printed kerchiefs to the best shop in Glasgow.

A quarter of an hour earlier, I’d listened to the proprietor offer them to his customer to assess her reaction to the samples I’d brought.

“I am sure you will agree, madam, these colors are the most vibrant you have ever seen, and the design is more intricate and more defined than any available anywhere.”

I lurked further down the counter, feigning to be just another customer, but eavesdropping to gauge the customer’s reaction. With my back to her, I guessed that in her silence she was fingering the sample. Or perhaps she was trying it across her shoulders the way the ladies wear, to consider the lay of the fabric.

“And notice how finely the hemming is done.”

Oh, he’s good, I thought. A first-class sales agent.

“Lovely,” she said finally. “I’ll take one in each design. You know my address. Please send them ‘round this afternoon.”

“Certainly, madam.”

As she exited the shop, the proprietor took two steps in my direction. “Well, Todd, you were right, customers will appreciate a better-quality product. What are your terms for supplying me the first of each month?”

It took all my self-command to remain reserved, confident, as we struck the bargain.

Leaving the shop, I indulged in a moment of vindication. Janet had warned me against taking such a risk, leaving the fields for my wild-eyed dream of printing cotton cloth in our back stable. Well, she had a right to have a say, I had to admit. She’d managed for years on my modest earnings but still squirreled away a few pence. And I credit her with the idea of first offering finished goods to the shop, hoping to entice the shopkeeper to carry more profitable bolts of my fabric.

Hence, guilt tinged my moment of victory, as I had led Janet to believe my cotton printing would be only a sideline during the dark winter when there is less farming to be done. But now, with this order, I knew I had reaped my last off the land.

Though I would have liked to celebrate with a pint, my day was not yet done. Next, I needed to seal the deal for the strip of land in Gilmour Holm, on the banks of the Kelvin. The dealing with the seller would be no travail as we’d negotiated already. He’d named his price, and it was a fair one, I judged, for access to the waters running off the Clyde.

The prospect of the new business propelled me into a brisk walk. As I passed the Ship Bank, my stride increased in length and speed in tandem with the rise in my ire as I recalled Andrew Buchanan turning me down for a loan to purchase the property. Buchanan—pride-swollen after his election as Lord Provost of Glasgow and his fame as one of Glasgow’s tobacco lords. I could still feel my cheeks flushing with humiliation as he explained the bank required evidence of greater financial stability than the dreaming young son of a country farmer could offer. This, coming from the son of a maltster. Heavens, Scotland has a thousand maltsters. Christians shouldn’t hate, I reminded myself and wondered whether I could call myself a Christian.

Jamming my fists into my pockets, I told myself to think about something more pleasant. Think about breaking the news of the kerchief order to Janet. I imagined the aroma of the dinner she would be preparing and pictured three-year-old David running about her skirts, Janet admonishing him with a hushed voice and indulgent smile not to wake the baby. I would sweeten the news by explaining that my success would be our success, as a family, and especially for someday being able to leave a business to David. She would be pleased for me, put her arms around me, and perhaps pour me a dram for celebration.

And the dram I would need, too, when I told her we would now need to move house and set up proper production in Gilmour Holm. And when I told her I had used her dowry money to purchase the land.

CHAPTER 2

JONATHAN

Gilmour Holm, November 10, 1754

Up and running in my very own printworks but finished goods coming at a slower pace than I’d thought they would. I was glad I’d had the foresight to stockpile the goods I printed myself, so I’ve been able to meet my supply obligations to date. However, that stockpile is running low. I shall need several additional runs by the new year.

I have to make this work. The morning after I’d shared my news and plans with Janet, she’d been up long before me. About to enter the kitchen, I stopped short, seeing her unusually still form staring into the early morning fire already ablaze. How long had she been up? Had she slept at all? I watched her from behind for a long moment before realizing she was weeping. I considered enveloping her in my arms but slinked back toward the sleeping space. Any consoling word or cheery morning greeting would be misplaced, I sensed, likely earning me a flick of her wrist rather than the usual kiss I quite liked.

A fortnight later, as we packed the last of our modest household belongings onto the broken-down cart that I prayed would make the journey, Janet turned to me. “Is that it, then?” A simple sentence, but the first civil word she’d had for me since the evening I entirely underestimated the effect my news would have on her. How could I have been so thick as to assume my enthusiasm would be infectious? Her father had agreed to our marrying only on condition that I would raise my station. Yet if we’d totaled up our coins that day, it would have been less than the day we said our vows. That was a thought to temper my excitement, all right.

The modest house on this property in Gilmour Holm is, thank the Lord, snug and warm. Once arrived, I was relieved to see Janet set about making it a home. I set about making amends by cleaning and carrying everything she asked and held my tongue while doing so.

The workshop is another story. Despite installing a few stoves for warmth, I’ve come to realize they’re insufficient to fully heat the space. My hands are chapped raw, and I chastise myself for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

I’ve hired two local women, or three, if I consider that two of them share a job on alternating days. It had been my plan to only bring on one, but when she seemed exceedingly slow at learning the printing process, I’d found I needed two or, as I said, three.

Edith, the full-time woman, can’t be faulted for her slowness, I suppose. It took me a good while to learn the skill, and I have to admit she’s picking it up faster than I did. We’re using the copperplate method, invented just two years ago in Ireland.

In truth, it was hearing about how copperplates could be much more accurate and efficient than the old block printing method that motivated me to set up the printing business. I am quite certain I am the first in Scotland to use such plates; surely, the first in greater Glasgow.

Edith had only ever had experience with wood block printing before joining me. My experience had been limited to just buying a few plates, some dye, and going to work in my back stable. Together, we’re stumbling along, I guess.

Edith is industrious and, from where I work, I can see her diligently plugging along. I’ve given her leave to try something new that she proposed yesterday.

“Sir,” she said. “I think we can enhance the print by combining methods.”

“How so?” I’d responded, naturally skeptical that a country lass who couldn’t even read could improve upon the latest technique.

“If we use the copperplate to print the red roses, as we already do, then we can use the old-fashioned wood blocks to scatter green leaves among them. No need to engrave a copperplate with a leaf pattern and hope it prints as desired. The first pass with the roses will be give us efficiency, the second pass with the leaves will give us enhanced decoration.”

From where I was standing, it looked like her trial was producing an attractive result. Fine. I’ll meet my first of the month deliveries and meet them with a superior product, as well.

CHAPTER 3

DAVID

Gilmour Holm, September 9, 1764

I sat next to my father in the rickety cart pulled by old Dobbin. I still hadn’t fully woken, but excitement tingled my spine into straightening just the same. Last evening at dinner, father told me I could skip my lessons today and join him at work to substitute for a printer he’d had to fire yesterday. I suspected he’d first cleared this plan with mother, as she raised no objection, just kept dishing more dinner onto our plates.

“Really, father?”

“Mind, it’s just for the day. New takers will likely show up with word having spread that I have a vacancy.”

I nodded my head vigorously. “Aye, of course. That’s fine.”

“And you must be a model employee, careful, diligent and respectful.”

“I understand, father.”

“There may be those who try to distract you or tease you, as you will be the fresh face, and a considerably younger one, but you must keep your mind on your work.”

“Thank you for warning me, father. I shall guard against distractions.”

I rubbed the last remnants of sleep from my eyes as we drew closer to the printworks.

Following my father’s quick stride onto the shop floor, I nearly bumped into him as he halted at one workstation.

“Ollie, meet your partner for today. Show him how it’s done,” he said with an offhanded gesture to the hand already preparing for work.

Father walked off quickly, leaving me a little slack-jawed for the moment.

Ollie tousled my hair and, despite an involuntary smile, I drew back, remembering father’s warning to be on guard against teasing. But I liked Ollie. He was the older brother of my pal, Sandy, both of us thirteen. I’d been to their home many times and knew the whole family.

“Welcome aboard, David,” he said, now businesslike.

“It’s just for the day, Ollie, but I’m keen to learn,” I said as I tied a canvas apron around my skinny waist.

“Let’s get to it, then.”

Ollie demonstrated how to ensure the fabric was taut enough for printing and warned me about keeping the dye off my fingertips.

Twilight was giving way to dark by the time I joined father for the trip home.

“Did you find a replacement, father?”

“Aye. As I knew I would. Three fellows and a woman turned up at my office door.”

“Who did you choose?”

“The one most keen for the job.”

“And who was that? Someone looking to move from another printworks?”

“That’s a reasonable assumption, son. Experience counts for a lot. And the oldest among the men plus the woman have both held similar jobs. No, I chose the young man desiring to leave off farming for a printing job.”

“Why him?”

Father was silent for a moment, his wrinkled brow becoming more so. “The logical answer is that farming can be unreliable, subject to the weather, the whims of the landowner and market prices, and he has a young family to feed, so of course he is eager. But the real reason is not logical.” Father glanced at me. “It’s that he reminds me of myself at his age.”

Aging lines etched my father’s face, yet I’d had trouble keeping up with him as we entered the workshop this morning. I wondered what he had been like at my age. Thin like me? Keen to learn? I yawned and reached to my shoulder, acknowledging a developing soreness.

CHAPTER 4

JONATHAN

Vale of Leven, June 15, 1768

If I am guilty of the sin of pride, then so be it. I’d worked late into the night to guarantee all was in readiness for my workers to report to our new location today. Fourteen years after hanging out my shingle as Jonathan Todd & Co., I would open our modern, expanded calico printing facility.

My spirits were also high for the way my darling Janet had sent me off to this venture. “Jonathan, my husband,” she’d said, “I am so proud of you.” Then she leaned into me and whispered, “So proud.” I’d given her a huge smack of a kiss, then bounded into the wagon next to David and snapped the reins to set us off at a good clip.

What a fine, fine day. The early morning sun glinted off the pure run of the River Leven. It would power our machines; not now, but soon. I’ve learned a lot about the industry these last years and am quite well connected by now. I have heard of the newer methods being developed. When they are ready for practical application, Jonathan Todd & Co. will be ready to adopt them.

I rubbed my hands together and greeted the approaching workers with a broad smile. Even the workers, an often-dour lot, seemed a tad eager to be coming to work in our new quarters, quite a bit more spacious than the old in Gilmour Holm. As each approached, I consulted my list and told them where their station would be. Young David was inside with a copy of the list and helped each find his or her assigned place.

I’d had to rouse David from his bed this morning, grumbling and trying to pull the covers over his head. But once on our way he, too, had seemed excited. He had no idea how fortunate he was to not be trudging off to fields as I did at his age.

Aye, Jonathan Todd & Co. has opened its doors in the beautiful Vale of Leven. It sits between Loch Lomond in the north and the River Clyde at Dumbarton in the south. The villages in the vale, the largest being Alexandria, supply our workers. I’d been sad not to bring my most stalwart workers from Gilmour Holm, especially Edith, who’d been with me from the start, but the dozen-odd miles to the new location made it impractical. I could sigh with nostalgia, but it’s more productive to look forward. I’m pleased with this new cadre of employees. Men, women, children—it makes no difference to me as long as they are careful, diligent, and I can depend on them to show up each morning.

Our commercial name is Levenfield Printworks. My reputation is already established for the quality of my printing. Calico, it’s called, fashionable designs on cotton. We use the most modern of materials, including dyes of unprecedented brilliance. Yet, I’ve calculated our profit margin could be much greater. To ratchet up our earnings, we’ll need to spin our own yarn and weave our own cloth, rather than buying it ready-made to print. Someday, I said to myself, someday, and shook the hands of the next workers to approach.

CHAPTER 5

JONATHAN

Vale of Leven, November 30, 1770

I let my horse have a leisurely walk past the huge new edifice on the riverbank at Cordale. I might have known my discovery of the Vale of Leven as perfect for printing would invite competition. Little more than two years later and William Stirling & Sons has already settled at Cordale, a bit further south and closer to the Clyde.

I’ve met Stirling, as one does at the meeting house, the market or the pub. He seems a reasonable sort, though he is married to the daughter of Andrew Buchanan, for which I find it difficult to like him as much as I might anyone else. Andrew Buchanan: tobacco lord, banker, and Lord Provost. With all his titles, one might think he’d like to add Christian to them and give a loan to a humble tradesman.

Focus. I must set aside my uncharitable thoughts of Buchanan and view Stirling through a businessman’s lens. Stirling had a prior location in Dalsholm. Here in the Vale, he’s been able to build rapidly and to impressive scale. No wonder, with his in-laws’ bank and tobacco income to provide capital, likely.

If I were smart, I would try to make a friend of him, because we face common challenges: fickle fashions, more competition coming in, employees always grousing and trying to organize.

Now, Stirling, he’s smart as well. His family may be flush from the tobacco trade in America, but from what I hear, tensions are building over in the colonies. If the tobacco supply from there dries up, Stirling’s printworks will still provide an income. And the two families have precedent. Archibald Buchanan, brother to Andrew, is partners with another of the Stirlings—Peter, I think—and they own the Dalquhurn Bleaching Company. Very convenient—aye?—for servicing a family-related printworks. And from what I’ve heard, they received a government subsidy to build themselves this fine structure. A banking family that needs a subsidy? Curious, to say the least.

My horse, eager to get to home and his oats, strained the reins against my calloused hands and I sighed. With or without political connections, one might suppose there’s enough trade to go around for all of us in the calico business. I’ll do better to mind my own business than envy Stirling’s. I put the horse into a trot, the quicker to see me home.