A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘I believe he said he was working with Pullar’s of Perth. A very good firm.’

  She found herself thinking, I could write to him, in care of his employers. I could ask him to forgive me for that awful blunder, and to come back. It would be so good to have him back ‒ someone to depend on, to talk to …

  But he wouldn’t come back. She knew him well enough to be sure of that. His pride had been too deeply offended for him ever to forgive her. So there was no use in writing.

  She longed to ask if he had mentioned her, but with Lucy there to catch every nuance she didn’t dare. She waited until she got her brother alone and then said, ‘Did Mr Armstrong send any message?’

  ‘Message?’

  ‘I’d have thought politeness would prompt him to send his respects.’

  ‘Now that I come to think of it, Jenny, he didn’t. But then, you parted on bad terms, didn’t you?’

  ‘What?’ she said faintly. Surely nothing had been said by Ronald about their last meeting.

  ‘Well, he walked out at a minute’s notice, didn’t he? Or you sent him packing on short order. I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ she heard herself saying. ‘And it was all my fault. I wish he’d come back, Ned. Luchar isn’t nearly as good with the dyes as Ronald Armstrong was.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt he’ll come back. He seems very well satisfied with his post at Pullar’s. Never mind, Jenny, by and by you’ll find a man for the dye department who’s as good as Armstrong.’

  She didn’t believe it. But she kept the thought to herself.

  In August came a message from someone much more important than Ronald Armstrong. Her Majesty’s secretary wrote to say that the Queen would be leaving London at the beginning of September for a stay at her home in Balmoral and requested the pleasure of meeting Miss Jenny Corvill again, at Berwick-upon-Tweed on the royal train.

  It was Lucy’s first actual encounter with a letter from the Royal Household. She took it from Jenny’s hands with awe. ‘She actually wants to see you!’ she breathed, when she had read it. ‘I never truly understood before that you had met her face to face.’

  Everyone in Galashiels soon knew that Jenny was to go to meet the Queen. The ladies became intensely interested in what she would wear, so that they could copy it as soon as possible. The men tried to find out if there was something on offer from Corvill and Son to the Royal Household and were rather disbelieving when told there was not.

  ‘We must all go to Berwick-upon-Tweed!’ Lucy declared. ‘It would be too mortifying to be left behind, wouldn’t it, Ned?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go quite so far as that. But I should certainly like to go to Berwick for the occasion ‒ wouldn’t you, Mother?’

  ‘No, no, I’m no fond of travelling,’ Millicent said comfortably. ‘But you and Lucy go ‒ it’ll be a nice excursion and though you won’t meet Her Majesty, you’ll see her, and that’s a pleasant thing.’

  Jenny saw Lucy’s face fall at the idea she wouldn’t meet the Queen. ‘Surely, as the wife of the owner of the firm …’

  ‘But I’m not asked to meet Her Majesty,’ Ned pointed out. ‘The letter was to Jenny specifically.’

  This didn’t deter Lucy from speaking of the matter as if she and Ned were included in the party invited to Berwick. Jenny decided not to correct the impression that had been given. When she was taken to the Prince Consort’s private secretary in Berwick on the day, she asked him if she might request a great favour.

  ‘Let me hear it, Miss Corvill,’ General Grey said with affability, smoothing his whiskers.

  ‘My brother is the actual owner of the firm of Corvill and Son, for whom I have acted as representative on past occasions. He and his wife are with me in Berwick. It would be a great honour if they could be presented to Their Majesties.’

  ‘Ahh, that is difficult, Miss Corvill. There are a number of town dignitaries and so forth who have already received notice that they will be presented. I hardly think …’

  Jenny held back a sigh. ‘I quite understand, General. I had no right to ask, only that my sister-in-law is so keenly interested in everything to do with the royal family.’

  The general gave her a look with his head on one side. He approved of her ‒ she had an air of quiet distinction in her pale gown and bonnet. Her dark hair shone from under the dove grey hat brim, her dark eyes looked up at him undemandingly. He thought it would be pleasant if more of the people he had to deal with were as reasonable as the beautiful Miss Corvill.

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ he said. ‘This, after all, is an informal occasion ‒ a royal progress, true, but in holiday spirit. Perhaps it can be managed. Your brother and his wife are hard by?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir ‒ they are in a carriage a few yards from the station entrance.’

  ‘I’ll send someone to bring them into the waiting-room. If Their Majesties are not too pressed, they may perhaps agree.’

  The Corvills had spent the night at the King’s Arms on Hide Hill. They had slept badly because of the excitement in the town and had been up early ‒ like everyone else ‒ arraying themselves in their best clothes. The royal train had come into the station on the beautiful viaduct during the night, and had stood there while the royal family breakfasted and made ready to receive the notables of the borough.

  Jenny was taken to the train after only a short wait. The carriages, lent for royal use by the London and Northwest Railway until special conveyances could be built, were elegant, with lace curtains tied back and flowers in silver holders. There was a ‘bed carriage’ further back, its windows discreetly veiled, but the carriage into which Jenny was conducted was what had until recently been called a ‘posting carriage’, in other words a saloon.

  The Queen and her husband were sitting on a velvet-padded sofa, with a mahogany table in front of them. There was scarcely room for Jenny to make her curtsey. General Grey bowed and withdrew ‒ perhaps to leave some space.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Corvill. I am happy to see you again,’ said the Queen, smiling and nodding. ‘You are well, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, thank you Ma’am. May I express my great sense of honour at your invitation ‒’

  ‘Yes, yes, Miss Corvill, but we had a motive!’ said the Prince, something that was almost vivacity lighting up his pale face. ‘My good young lady, we wish to call in your expert abilities.’

  ‘Oh, Your Highness, anything I could do …’

  The royal couple smiled at each other. This was clearly something that pleased them both very much. ‘We have decided,’ Victoria announced, ‘to have a regiment formed in honour of His Royal Highness. It is to be called the Prince’s Scottish Regiment. This is to denote our great pleasure in and our gratitude to the Scottish people, for all the joys we have known in their country.’

  Jenny was touched. There was something sentimental yet genuine in their attitude. ‘I repeat, anything I can do for Your Majesties ‒’

  ‘Miss Corvill, the planning is quite well advanced. But before we make a public announcement we should like to have drawings of the uniform and accoutrements to give to the press. The uniform has been designed by my dear husband,’ said Victoria, with a glance of loving admiration at Albert. ‘However, he has not been able to make a tartan that pleases him. To tell the truth, his time is so limited …’

  ‘My dear, it is not a matter of time so much as talent. I can make a household tartan, but this is something much more important.’ He turned to Jenny. ‘Can you design a tartan for my Scottish regiment, Miss Corvill?’

  ‘I, sir?’

  ‘Don’t look so astounded. You have made many good patterns. I have seen them. And the one you gave to us for the children ‒ that was extremely pleasing.’

  ‘But that was ‒’

  ‘I know, it was a variation of a genuine plaid. This is something more difficult. You will have to start from nothing. But you have done that many times for the public.’

  ‘That’s different from making a tarta
n for a regiment, sir.’

  ‘I agree. But I should like you to try. Will you do that, young lady?’

  ‘Why, Your Highness, of course I will try …’

  ‘That is all we ask. The matter is fairly urgent ‒ I should like to announce recruitment for the regiment in the spring, and soon after that we shall want to issue kilts to the men. So that gives you … shall we say three months to bring us designs and three months to make the cloth after we have chosen?’

  ‘Your Majesty, I shall do my very best. But supposing I don’t produce anything to your liking …?’

  ‘Then I suppose we delay the announcement and ask some other designer to try.’ The Prince shrugged. ‘Don’t worry too much, Miss Corvill. We shall undoubtedly find a tartan to suit the need, but the Queen and I would be very pleased if it were your design. We feel we have a long-standing interest in you.’

  ‘Your Highness is too kind,’ Jenny said, hardly knowing how to find words to respond to so much benevolence.

  The Prince picked up a leather folder in which there were several sheets of paper. ‘These are the thoughts of the Queen and myself on the grounding of the regiment. It shall be recruited in the Highlands, mainly, and shall have as its motto “Steady of heart and stout of hand”, from Sir Walter Scott ‒’

  ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ Jenny murmured.

  ‘Ah! You see, we were right!’ the Prince said with a laugh, turning to his wife. ‘She catches the thought at once. Well, look through these papers, Miss Corvill. The regiment will probably be based at Grantown, where we have had so many happy visits and viewed such glorious scenery. If you think of that district, its mountains, its moors, its lakes and rivers …’

  ‘Yes, sir, I understand.’

  ‘And now I believe your relations are coming to be presented.’

  Jenny could do no more than curtsey and murmur thanks. The honour of the commission to design the tartan had been quite enough to overpower her: the kindness in sparing time to see Ned and Lucy was too much. To her own dismay and annoyance, she felt tears brimming at her eyes. Absurd … Yet it was a great occasion, and she had been singled out.

  Ned came in, knocking his head on the low ceiling of the carriage. Lucy followed, looking angelically fair and fragile in her pale blue velvet gown. The Queen smiled, the Prince bowed, Ned bowed, Lucy curtseyed.

  ‘We are pleased to receive you,’ said Victoria.

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ muttered Ned.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Ma’am,’ gasped Lucy.

  Next moment they had been quietly ushered out, and the royal audience was over.

  The locomotive had been quietly hissing steam for some minutes. The station-master advanced, stovepipe hat clasped over his bosom. The door of the royal saloon carriage was closed, steps were carried away, attendants leapt into carriages at the rear, doors slammed. The wheels began to turn.

  The crowd on the platform cheered. The people lining the track waved. Below on the River Tweed the paddlesteamer Susan tooted its siren. The bunting blew in the brisk breeze coming from Holy Island, and gulls swooped overhead screaming inquiry at all the turmoil.

  In a few moments the royal train disappeared on its way north. The Corvills turned to one another. ‘I met the Queen!’ Lucy said, lips parted in blissful amazement.

  ‘Was there a special reason why she sent for you?’ Ned asked his sister.

  ‘You might say so.’ Suddenly Jenny was filled with excitement and pride. ‘She’s asked me to design a new tartan for a new Scottish regiment!’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Though it was a Sunday, the King’s Arms had set on an eight-course luncheon in honour of the day. The town’s notables were gathered there celebrating their moment of fame. The Corvills were welcomed among them as people of equal consequence. They had a place of honour at one end of a long table at the head of which sat the Provost and the Town Constable.

  Lucy was in her element. Through the consommé she talked to the chief magistrate and when the filet de saumon monarque was brought she turned to her other neighbour, the station-master, to discuss rail travel.

  Dishes were placed before Jenny and removed almost untasted. Her thoughts were already engaged on the problem set for her by Victoria and Albert. Colours and shapes were forming and dissolving before her mind’s eye. She had to rouse herself as the canard sauvage roti was served, to be polite to her neighbours, two local landowners.

  As soon as she could she left the after-luncheon groups. Her departure was unnoticed since some of the town fathers, having missed church that morning, now felt they must sleep off a too-lavish meal to be ready for evening service. She put on her jacket and took a shawl, to walk down Hide Hill and out through the arch to the side of the harbour. The breeze was strong now, full of salt and the tang of seaweed as the tide ran out at the rivermouth.

  Mountains and moors, lakes and rivers: grey shale, green moss, purple heather, grey-blue lochs that reflected back the sky, dark brown rivers carrying the peaty water to the sea.

  White for clouds, for the silver of fish in the lochs, for the gleam of birch trees on a hillside. Dark green for pines lonely against the sky. Fawn for the hide of the deer, for the pine marten skittering among the branches.

  Which? Which to choose? Where to start?

  Certainly she must read and re-read the notes Prince Albert had given her about the structure of the regiment. It was to be an infantry regiment, she recalled from skimming through the papers already.

  A vision sprang up before her eyes: men marching, making their way through a pass ‒ in some foreign land, for the trees were unfamiliar and there was sand underfoot. Shadows were dark beneath the rocks.

  Not too much white in the kilts, then ‒ it would gleam and glint too much, especially if the men were engaged in a night attack.

  ‘Gracious goodness, why are you mooning about out here?’ said a sharp voice behind her.

  Dragged back from her vision, she felt a moment’s actual faintness. She turned. It was Lucy, of course. ‘Sister-in-law, what for did you slip away like that? We’ve been having such an interesting conversation with Viscount Hendry, and he specifically asked for a word with you, and as Ned was off inquiring for a strict protestant church for evening service, I thought I’d better … But if I’d known how horrid this wind was, I’d have sent a servant.’

  Perforce Jenny turned back along the cobbled road. Boats in the harbour were beginning to tilt as the water ebbed from under them. Their celebration bunting canted over; jagged lines of colour against the weed-draped walls of the harbour. Jenny saw it with pleasure ‒ so different from the quiet stretches of the Gala Water running between its tree-lined banks.

  It came home to her that she didn’t travel enough. She sought inspiration for her patterns in the world around her, but as she watched the Tweed glide under its bridge and run to the sea she knew she was becoming limited. Galashiels and the hills around it were dear to her now but she ought to see other places. She remembered Edinburgh and its brownish castle-rock, she thought of the smoke-stained buildings of Glasgow ‒ there was inspiration to be found in many places for shades and colours.

  But not yet. First she must concentrate on the work she had been commissioned to do. Three months to prepare a design ‒ time was short.

  On the train journey back to Galashiels she read through the notes in the folder. They mentioned the number of companies, the junior status at which the regiment must join the infantry brigade, the possible number of staff officers and the buildings now available in Grantown-on-Spey as headquarters, notably some sites left when the railway had been completed on through the wilderness of Brae Moray.

  Brae Moray. She had never been there. Except for that short trip six years ago to Balmoral she had never been to the Highlands, the home of the cloth from which she made her living.

  She made a decision. As soon as she was home she would attend to a few urgent matters and then she would make a trip to the mountains, to see what i
t was that had bewitched the Queen and her husband so deeply. Without seeing the country that they had seen, she doubted if she could ever capture what it was the Prince wanted from her as the tartan of his regiment.

  The carriage was there to meet them at Galashiels Station. She waved the porter to put her luggage in, but turned away from her brother and his wife to have a conference with Mr Gowan, the station-master. ‘I want to go to Grantown-on-Spey, Mr Gowan.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sorry, of course not ‒ in a day or two. Let’s see ‒ today’s Monday, I’ve things to do that will take me tomorrow and next day. Shall we say I’d like to travel on Thursday?’

  ‘Whaur to again, Mistress Corvill?’ Gowan said, gasping a little as he tried to keep up with her thought processes.

  ‘Grantown-on-Spey.’

  ‘Och, aye, you’ll go by the new line, then. Let me see …’

  ‘I leave it with you, Mr Gowan. I suppose I must stay overnight at Edinburgh and then travel on?’

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see, the connections mebbe will favour a stop somewhere else. Shall I send a wee telegraphic message for a hotel wherever seems best?’

  ‘Yes, for Thursday night, I think. And then the Friday I’ll be at Grantown?’

  ‘Aye, ah-huh, aye, I’ll sort it for you, mistress, just give me an hour or two wi’ the timetables.’

  When she rejoined Ned and Lucy she found Lucy fidgeting with annoyance. ‘Do hurry yourself, Jenny, I’m dying to get out of this travelling costume.’

  ‘Go you home then, my dear,’ Jenny replied. ‘I think I’ll walk to the mill and see that everything is all right.’

  ‘Don’t you want to change first?’ Lucy said in amazement.

  ‘No, I’ll do fine as I am. Tell Mother I’ll be home by four, I shan’t work a full day.’

  Lucy cast her eyes up to heaven, as if to say, Who in their senses would work even an hour, after a journey in a rattling branch-line train?

  At the mill Jenny went at once to the yarn store. She wanted to fill her eye with the colours of wool, to feel the textures under her fingers, to seek from them as she had a hundred times before the inspiration for a new cloth.