10. Traveling Back to the Middle Ages 010

The count’s words were far from mere empty promises; he would not entrust everything solely to ‘trust.’ In fact, everyone present during the sugar production, including the servants, was immediately placed under his control to continue the sugar-making process. Once a sufficiently large sugar workshop was established within the enclosed estate, they would all become workers in the workshop.

As for those other than the servants—Louisa, himself, and the countess aside—the rest of the notable people mainly consisted of the count’s two attendants and a maid from the countess’s side. They would either become managers of the sugar workshop or remain under close supervision; if the secret of sugar production were leaked, they would bear responsibility.

All of them were nobility of Brudo, and the count had numerous ways to restrain them, so for the moment, he felt reasonably assured.

After taking preliminary confidentiality measures, the count began considering expanding sugar production—naturally, this was a matter that had to be done, as it promised the clinking sound of coins!

Unlike some stubborn nobles, Brudo had a long-standing mercantile tradition and valued industrial and commercial profits highly. While other nobles boasted of their military might and celebrated in poetry that no merchant dared enter their lands and no beast of burden could safely traverse their roads, the counts of Brudo focused on building bridges and roads, protecting passing merchants through codified laws.

“…Yes, we must procure more sugar beets, but qualified beets are scarce.” The count furrowed his brow as he discussed the next steps for sugar production with Louisa. Although termed a discussion, the decision primarily rested with the count; unless it was a technical matter, Louisa only needed to nod in agreement.

This was quite normal—in the Middle Ages, just as in ancient China, the authority of a ‘father’ was unquestionable. Even though Louisa had been designated as the count’s future heir, the count could decide unilaterally on any matter. By informing Louisa and ostensibly consulting her, he was already showing respect for her as successor.

This ‘respect’ was also partly because the idea of sugar production from beets had been Louisa’s own suggestion.

Louisa had no intention of becoming a rebellious heir, nor did she have any reason to rebel, so she was rather cooperative—though her father’s authority was inviolable, history is never without exceptions. The medieval noble and even royal families often had examples of filial piety, but also of strife.

For instance, Henry II of the Plantagenet dynasty and his sons—most famously the Lionheart and John Lackland—were more enemies than father and sons. Their greatest conflict arose from Henry’s indecision in choosing an heir; he failed to give his legitimate heir security and simultaneously fostered the ambitions of his other sons.

Such conflicts did not exist between the count and Louisa. The count had only two legitimate children, Louisa and Eva, and showed no sign of favoring Eva. Why then would Louisa not cooperate?

“The second year will be much better, Father,” Louisa proposed tactfully. “We can allocate part of the demesne land for sugar beet cultivation. Once we have enough quality seeds, we can have serfs and free peasants plant beets as well. If we agree to let them pay their rent with the harvested beets, I believe they will not refuse.”

Although some primitive sugar beet seeds, selectively bred, could be obtained from the Fontro nunnery, these seeds were clearly limited. The allocated demesne could only be partially planted with these, and the rest would have to be filled with ordinary but relatively suitable beet seeds.

The count approved Louisa’s proposal. For the time being, besides waiting for the men sent to Fontro to return with seeds, their main focus remained on extracting sugar from beets. More precisely, they closely monitored the workers improving the sugar-making process—according to Louisa, although sugar had been successfully produced before, there was still room for improvement in all aspects.

Moreover, large-scale production required stricter procedures; success could no longer be left to chance. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it failed...

The count was not well-versed in these matters and, as ruler of Brudo, had many daily duties. Naturally, he left the detailed responsibilities to Louisa, who had proposed beet sugar production.

This was no great challenge for Louisa. Though she had never worked with sugar production in her past life, her mindset was far broader than that of medieval people. Whenever a bottleneck was reached and others were at a loss, she could identify potential breakthroughs using some ‘common sense’ from the modern world.

Even if not every attempt led to a real breakthrough, she could still inspire the craftsmen... This is actually the most effective way for a modern person to maximize their impact in the past.

Modern people in ancient times were not omnipotent; often, they only had theory and general direction, lacking practical skills and specifics. Yet they were not useless; pointing the way was immensely valuable, saving countless costs of trial and error!

Much like the leading scholars of later eras, many of whom were too old to conduct frontline experiments, their value lay in directing others with experience and genius intuition.

Of course, sugar production was not Louisa’s only concern these days. Amidst sugar-making, many daily tasks arose. Louisa clearly felt that during these few months at the Brudo court, she adapted to this era far faster than she had during more than ten years in the nunnery.

The nunnery shunned worldly matters, which in some ways allowed the future-born Louisa to forget the real world and pretend she was merely dreaming...

One day, perhaps as a reward for Louisa’s contributions to beet sugar production, or perhaps because Count Balzac felt her wardrobe was utterly unsuitable for her status—Louisa’s mother had died young but left a substantial dowry upon arriving in Brudo. Setting money aside, the portion of her trousseau was entirely given to Louisa after her death.

Louisa could continue to wear the luxurious jewelry (the count had heard that Louisa’s jewelry was often more exquisite than the countess’s; much of it was inherited, and some came from Louisa’s personal space, but the count assumed it was all inheritance), but even if the splendid robes had been preserved until now, Louisa was unlikely to wear them.

Though Louisa had hastily ordered some secular clothes upon learning she would return to Brudo, the quantity was limited.

In any case, the count summoned over a dozen tailors to create the most fashionable garments for Louisa—this period, the late Middle Ages, was when the concept of ‘fashion’ truly emerged. Among the wealthy classes, both men and women pursued lavish and novel attire, with men sometimes even more so than women.

Beyond the wealthy, anyone with some spare money would strive to imitate the fashion of the rich. Though they could not afford the luxurious fabrics and jewels, there were always acceptable, affordable ‘lookalikes.’

The most crucial birthplace of this ‘fashion’ was the courts of great nobles. In a sense, these courts were like ‘utopias’ amid the chaotic times, distinct from the vulgarity, dullness, and poverty outside. Here, elegance, splendor, and wealth were paramount... Intellectuals gathered at these courts, praising everything about them.

A culture with such ‘centripetal force’ inevitably spread outward, with those capable adopting it. Although it might seem niche now, the trend was unmistakable.

“Honorable Lady Louisa, you should have at least two cloaks. A noblewoman of your rank always needs cloaks,” one tailor said, presenting samples. The fabrics were luxurious, lined with squirrel fur.

This tailor was right. At the time, cloaks were the most important and ostentatious item in a woman’s wardrobe. Nearly every poet’s description of noblewomen’s appearances mentioned them elegantly holding a cloak’s front with one hand or tenderly sheltering a knight beneath their cloak.

In the illustrations of expensive books, noblewomen were often depicted wearing splendid cloaks. Because the cloak was worn outermost and covered a large area, it left a strong impression.

Louisa would not skimp on the count’s expense. Since he was footing the bill for the clothes, if the tailor said two cloaks, then two cloaks it would be. Ultimately, Louisa ordered one cloak made of red velvet embroidered with large diamond patterns in silver thread, and another made of deep blue silk with heavy gold embroidery at the hem, lined with sable fur.

In addition, there were brand-new formal dresses, cotehardies, sleeveless surcoats, along with matching hats, veils, shoes, and purses...

After noting Louisa’s requirements, the lead tailor said, “As you command, my lady... However, the count has only agreed to pay for the fabric and our labor. According to your specifications, some of these clothes will require jewels—do you intend to order them through us from the goldsmith, or will you provide them yourself?”

Though it might sound stingy of the count to commission clothes but make Louisa cover the jewels, the reality was more complex. The Middle Ages were a period of relatively scarce resources, even for great nobles! Despite the abundance of gems, jewels were reusable and a crucial part of a noble’s personal wealth—they were carefully accounted for.

Since the count knew Louisa was not short of jewels, he naturally did not wish to purchase more from nowhere.

Louisa paid little mind to the tailor’s words and had Lady Hugo bring one of her jewel cases.

Most of the jewels were inherited from her mother, but the ‘finest pieces’ came from Louisa’s personal space. Though Louisa’s aunt in her previous life had run an online store selling her own jewelry designs using cheap semi-precious stones, cultured pearls, and synthetic gems—times change—many of these pieces at this moment were truly eye-catching.

For example, Louisa presented a tray of pearls.

Pearls sewn onto garments were usually not of exceptional quality, relying instead on quantity. For a noble’s formal dress at this time, sewing on a thousand or two pearls was normal. For a noblewoman’s wedding dress, several thousand were possible. With so many pearls, they could hardly all be top-tier.

The pearls Louisa showed were 4mm white, round freshwater pearls, about a thousand in the tray, not intended for just one garment—unless it was an occasion demanding conspicuous display, Louisa found the idea of sewing so many pearls on a single piece hard to accept. The aesthetic aside, the weight would be oppressive.

The tailors were stunned by the pearls. Though they had witnessed much wealth and luxury, they had never seen such pearls brought out to adorn garments!

The pearls were not large, but each was perfectly round, flawless, and dazzling—such pearls would suffice to decorate a princess’s crown (even if not the main stones, smaller pearls were often used).

The tailors could scarcely have imagined these were freshwater pearls. Freshwater pearls were generally duller than seawater pearls and thus considered less valuable in ancient times. In the Middle Ages, freshwater pearls were sometimes disparagingly called ‘mongrel pearls.’ Of course, most pearls sewn onto clothes were freshwater pearls.

One could only say that technology is the primary productive force. Modern pearl farming has achieved wonders; producing freshwater pearls resembling tiny light bulbs is no rarity. Although these could never surpass fine seawater pearls, in ancient times, the best wild seawater pearls were scarce. These pearls could rival many good seawater pearls available then.

Nobles could easily produce fine seawater pearls, but to produce nearly a thousand pearls all perfectly round, flawless, uniform in size and luster? That was not just a matter of money; before cultured pearls, such a personal collection was very difficult to amass.