I ought to be working on Mr. Berengar's bookcases right now, rather than writing in my journal, but I am simply too tired and sore, and require a rest, but not the sort where I might lapse into slumber. It wouldn't do to fall asleep right here in the crafting hall. Though I suppose it might do well for the gossip, considering what is very probably going around even now. No one can think that if I pass a night slumped against a workbench, that I am engaging in any inappropriate dalliances.
Trestlebridge, small and sleepy as it was, had some greater sense of discretion about people's personal affairs. Perhaps being on the edge of rough and wild land inculcates a different sense of propriety, where something as harmless as a young man and a young woman taking a moonlit walk together isn't worth rattling the tongues of all and sundry, when there are weighty rumblings about goblins and ruined crops to be considered. Bree, however, has nothing better to think about. Or perhaps it's just my sister with her eagerness to tease me, and of course Mr. Hazelwood, about whom I ought not commit any of my thoughts to parchment. There is some delicate irony in the fact that, after needling me about one evening with Liffey, and no more than a single dance in the Pony with the lovely and talented Odelynne (a lass of the Mark with hair the color of a summer sunset), Piper found herself arguing with Arthur in my defense against calumny in a similar vein (though in deadly earnest). So vociferously did she defend me, that somehow she had a falling out with Belfry, for whom she bears a deep and apparently secret affection.
Side note: I must corner Piper and ask her to tell me of this falling out, if there is some small chance I could assist with remedying it. They seem like they make an agreeable couple, if they can get out of their own way long enough to assay some overtures one to the other. She was too distressed to speak of the falling out after we left Barliman's establishment yesternight.
But first I must undertake to at least complete the dovetails and superstructure for the first bookcase. I estimated completion for Mr. Berengar by four days from now, and then everything fell behind. My lumberjacking expedition with Caein was delayed several days, which I made good use of by working with the forge-master on hinges, locks, and other metal-works. Cesistya has completed the book-spine fascia for the hidden compartment, so that won't add further delay, but I only finished the desk last night; the engraved, painted horse-head logo took a great amount of time to make perfect. That gives me just four days to complete the bookshelves, without missing my estimate. (It was not a promise, but I do think it behooves me to make my estimate, especially while I am trying to earn a reputation for my professionalism and craftsmanship.) The bookshelves are a simple design, apart from the four horse-heads, but the counterweighting and the curved slide-track for the hidden compartment will take at least a day, and there is time for varnish to dry to consider as well.
It is unfortunate that this work, due to the hidden compartment and that it's to be installed in a private home, will be little seen. As it is, Liffey's shelves are similarly hidden, and worse yet, I have heard that she will be away for some time in the Lone-lands, so there will be no word of mouth about my workmanship from that quarter. I was very pleased with the engraving and the cunning way the brackets merged iron into wood in the shelves, with flowers straddling the junctures, but nothing will come of that. I can only hope Mr. Berengar speaks to others of my work, even if he cannot say everything about what makes it of superior quality. Surely, the exceptional work of Cesistya on the fascia will merit some appreciation. There is a virtue in a craftsman who finds excellent people to collaborate with; having employed Cesistya is to my credit, as will be a close working relationship with Odelynne, should I have a commission which can employ her artistic talents. (After she hears Arthur's gossip and slander, third- or fourth-hand, she is unlikely to wish any other relationship, alas.)
Piper and Odelynne both have teased me for speaking too much about business. Perhaps I do. I am ever consumed by thoughts of boot-straps: having no capital, no name of renown, and no clients, I cannot see anything before me but an endless circle of needs. I can sell my wares, if I can but make some that are ready for immediate sale, or which can be used to demonstrate my talent; but for that, I must perforce have tools and materials, and for that, I need coin to purchase them, and for that, I need to have sold my wares. Talking up my trade to find those first commissions, which earn just enough praise to sow the seeds of further commissions, and just enough coin to buy my first tools, which lead to my next commission, which earns enough for more tools, and eventually materials, and eventually renown, seems the only boot-strap by which I can pull myself up. But clearly there is such a thing as too much.
I had thought that, by speaking with the lovely Odelynne only of dance, and art, and merriment, and the pleasure of good company, I was taking a step in the correct direction. But, despite that we did not so much as take a step outside together, or touch hands beyond that tiny amount of one dance, Arthur somehow takes it as me being a 'cad', and speaks ill of me in public. Easy for him. His name is so beyond reproach that it can survive even his own repeated mockeries to it, through his boorish, unseemly, petulant, and decidedly ungentlemanly behavior. Where mine clings so precariously to the faintest whiff of respect that an ill-placed word can ruin it forever. Shall I then forswear the company of others entirely, to avoid any suggestion of impropriety? Or would that simply return me to the state of speaking too much of business?
Would that a man might prosper both in companionship and in trade based solely on his virtues, not on the whim of strangers who plumb not the weight of their words.
