by Liz Trenow
‘And what will that prove, dearest?’
The truth was that I didn’t really know, but I couldn’t leave without looking. ‘Please, it will take but a few minutes if we work together. I’ll start at this end if you start by the door.’
I could scarcely believe the variety of gowns before my eyes, plain and brocaded fabrics in every colour of the rainbow: red taffeta, cerise satin, yellow cambric, a stunning blue/green shot silk, black for mourning, emerald twill, cream organza, showy rococo swirls, simple floral motifs, geometric figures and elegant curves.
How must it feel, I wondered, to have such a choice of heavenly garments to wear? Did she ever tire of such riches and wish to wear a simple calico day dress? There seemed to be no such thing in this collection.
As we began pulling out gown after gorgeous gown I couldn’t stop myself exclaiming: ‘Heavens, look at the beading on this one’, and ‘Oh, I could die to wear this, just the once.’ At the other end of the rack Jane herself gave the occasional gasp: ‘My, I’ve never seen such beautiful silk embroidery’, or ‘This is just extraordinary’.
All too soon we heard the voice of the butler calling from the hallway: ‘Mrs Hogarth, Miss Amesbury, I have been asked to enquire if you are both quite well.’ We looked at each other, muffling giggles with hands over our mouths.
‘We are perfectly well, thank you,’ Jane called back, managing admirably to control her voice. ‘But we may be a little longer, so please give our apologies to those who await us.’
We continued our search a little more quickly, though I truly wished there was all the time in the world to examine the fabrics, the design and the workmanship here in this cupboard. The collection contained a thousand lessons in our craft – my seamstresses would have been thrilled to see it.
Jane and I were working towards each other and fast approaching the centre of the rail. I was about to give up hope when, with pounding heart, I saw it: the pagoda silk. As we pulled the gown free for a clearer look we could not help gasping, before falling into silent admiration. Although the silvering had tarnished and the dimly lit room offered no give-away glimmer, it was undoubtedly the very same silk, made up into an astonishingly beautiful gown, perhaps the most remarkable I have ever seen.
The skirt was so wide that it must have been designed for the enormous hoops fashionable a few decades ago, the sleeves loose below the elbow so that deep ruffles of lace could be tied beneath, the bodice lavishly and elaborately decorated with thousands of silver sequins. On closer inspection, I could see that the stitching throughout was so delicate as to be almost invisible. Whoever had sewn it was an extraordinary craftswoman.
‘My goodness. That really is a dress to impress,’ I said, finding my voice at last. ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to try it on?’
‘Oh, you are such a naughty thing,’ Jane said. ‘We shouldn’t even be in here at all, snooping like this, and we certainly don’t have time for a fitting session.’
‘But is it not extraordinary, Jane? Such a thing of beauty. I have never seen anything like it before. It must have been made for a very special occasion.’
‘Come, dearest,’ she said. ‘You will just have to treasure it in your memory, for we really must return to our friends downstairs, or they will think we have come to a misadventure, perhaps drowned in that enormous bath.’
Reluctantly, I eased the dress back onto the rail and pulled the protective white sheeting into place. Jane took my arm and I followed, closing the door on my treasure with a heavy heart. I would never see it again.
‘Well, at least you have your proof now,’ she said as we descended the great staircase. ‘That silk your mother left for you was definitely woven for Henrietta Howard.’
The rest of the day passed in a blur: the return journey to Chiswick in that luxurious coach and four, saying our farewells to the Garricks, then a quick glass of water and a biscuit to fortify myself for the return to London in the Hogarths’ only slightly less comfortable gig.
It was much later that evening, after I had retired to bed, that I had time to mull over the extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours. And yet, even though we had proved that the pagoda silk was woven for the former king’s mistress, this knowledge only heightened the mystery of how this precious fabric had come into the possession of my poor mother.
What if she had stolen it? The theft, if that was what had happened, would not have been discovered until after I was born and taken to the Hospital, when my mother offered the piece of silk – probably her only possession of any value – as a token. But what then? What if the theft was discovered and she was sentenced to transportation or, worse, execution? Then, another astonishing thought: could she actually still be alive, transported to somewhere on the other side of the world? Were records kept, and where could I find them?
I must have slept for a while then, because I woke suddenly, just as dawn was breaking, recalling the conversation in the coach about the ‘so-called nephew’, and Mr Garrick’s words: ‘There could very well be others. And whatever happened to them, we wonder?’ If she had borne other illegitimate children why had she not kept them close, just as she had with John and Dorothy? She had money aplenty, after all. Or perhaps the king, fearing scandal at the arrival of further ‘nieces and nephews’, had simply insisted?
The Foundling Hospital, with its rules about giving inmates new identities, would have provided the perfect cover. Anyone wealthy enough to make a sizeable donation – at least £100, Jane had told me – was assured a place for their unwanted offspring. Despite her privileges, had Henrietta, like myself and so many others, suffered the agony of giving up a child?
And then, as my mind wandered, it invented a scenario so chilling that it seemed to grip my chest like a vice. How else to explain how a silk so precious, so rare that the merchant had been sworn to secrecy, had ended up as my token? It was a thrilling, terrifying thought, and the more I considered it, the more convincing it became. The portrait of that sweet young woman proved it, surely: we had the same colouring, the same wide forehead and dark eyes. Could Henrietta have been my mother? And then, a further preposterous thought that brought me out in a clammy sweat: if she was my mother, then was my father the old king?
But if I was really the daughter of Henrietta Howard, where did Louisa fit into the picture? Was she just an earlier offspring of the king and his mistress? If so, why had she created that elaborate story about the straitened circumstances of our mother, about being fostered to an aunt and treated like a servant?
I sat up in bed, and slowly my heart calmed. It was an absurd notion, the notion of a madwoman. It could not possibly be true. Yet the coincidences were so compelling that I could not entirely dismiss it from my mind.
20
Bays: a coarse, open wool fabric with a long nap; very hard-wearing, often used for workwear or outerwear.
I had not seen Anna since our visit to Monsieur Girardieu several weeks previously, and there was so much to tell.
The family were still at the table finishing their supper, but I was welcomed in and invited to join them for a bowl of flummery. ‘It’s cook’s new recipe,’ Anna said. ‘Do try.’
I tucked in, savouring the delicious flavourings of cinnamon and nutmeg. Monsieur Lavalle and Henri were in full flow, discussing the most recent controversy among members of the Worshipful Company of Weavers while the two apprentices listened silently. Anna seemed unusually quiet as she nursed little Jean on her knee, feeding him oatmeal from her own plate. I noticed that despite her enthusiasm for the new recipe she ate barely a scrap of it for herself.
When she told the little lad it was time for bed he lurched from her lap and toddled towards me, demanding to be picked up. Always glad of the opportunity to cuddle the boy, I gathered him into my arms. ‘Tell you what, Jayjay. Would you like me to tell you a story?’
‘Are you sure, Charlotte? He’s such a heavy lump these days I struggle to carry him up the stairs.’ Anna patted the now obvious bulge of her
belly.
‘There is nothing I’d like more, and I know your routine well enough.’ I stood, resting him on my hip. ‘Kiss Mama, Papa and Grandpapa goodnight.’ Upstairs, I washed the little boy’s face and hands with a sponge. The water was cold but he did not complain. I tied him into his soft cambric nightgown and gave him a drink from the cup of milk Anna had given us before starting on the story.
There is nothing more comforting than holding a sleepy child on your lap, breathing in the sweet, sugared-almond smell of their hair, feeling the weight and warmth of their little bodies. The bundle of energy that usually wriggled free now rested, relaxed and heavy in my arms, as I recounted the tale of how Tom Thumb arrived at King Arthur’s court and how, as a reward for killing the ogres, Arthur granted Tom the hand of a princess. The idea of a tiny man seems greatly to appeal to children. It was certainly one of Peter’s favourites and it is a joy for me to repeat it now that Jean is old enough to understand.
He was already rubbing his eyes when I laid him in his cot beside Anna and Henri’s big bed, tucking the quilt around him, and I could not resist kneeling beside him for a few moments, stroking his hair and crooning the lullaby that I’d sung to Peter on the few occasions I was allowed.
As I left the room, I found Anna seated on a chair at the turn of the stairs.
‘I hope you weren’t listening to my squawking up there?’
‘Your voice is very sweet,’ she said, patting the stool beside her. ‘Is he asleep?’
‘Soundly so.’
‘Then come and join me. The others are in the living room still arguing about politics, but I sense that you have news.’
‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘But first, you must tell me what was so preoccupying you at supper that you ate not a taste of that delicious flummery.’
She sighed. ‘I feel so weary much of the time and my feet are already swollen. I would dearly love to visit my father and Jane in Suffolk before the baby arrives but I fear I may have left it too late. The thought of spending two long days in a coach is just too much.’
‘Could they not come here again?’
‘I cannot ask him, Charlotte. His curate wrote recently that father had been laid low for several weeks since his last visit, and unable to preach, which makes him very grumpy. It does worry me.’
In the shadows, the blue bruises below her eyes appeared deeper than ever.
‘Is there anything I can do, dearest?’
‘I don’t believe so, not at the moment. I thank you for your concern. But where have you been? We have barely seen you since Easter. How is business faring these days? Did your flyers have the desired effect?’
‘Oh indeed, and I thank you and Henri for your help. The shop is busier than ever and we’ve even had to take on new seamstresses.’
‘I am so pleased. And did you go to Essex for Easter?’
‘Sadly no, but I went to Chiswick instead, and Jane organised a visit to Henrietta Howard’s house. And guess what?’
‘How can I guess? She was mysteriously raised from the dead and claimed you as her long-lost daughter?’
‘Don’t joke, it’s not so far from the truth. We found the silk.’
‘What do you mean, the silk?’
‘We went with David Garrick and his wife. And we found the gown.’
‘David Garrick? The actor?’ she cried. ‘And HH’s gown? Heavens. I cannot keep up with this. I urge you, start again. Tell me everything, from the beginning.’
By the time I’d finished, she was laughing. ‘What a brazen pair, rummaging in her ladyship’s wardrobe. But at least you have your proof.’
‘But how on earth did my mother get hold of the silk, unless . . .?’
‘Unless what, dearest?’
I explained how it was widely believed that Henrietta had fostered two of her illegitimate children – fathered by the king – with her brother. ‘Don’t you see? That is just what I was forced to do with Peter?’
‘I can see the parallels, Charlotte. But what are you getting at now?’
‘It is also rumoured that she bore other children. So where are they? What if . . .’ I hesitated to voice my darkest thoughts. ‘Could they have been raised in the Hospital, like me? What if – oh Anna, this sounds so stupid, saying it out loud.’
‘Say it. I promise not to laugh.’
‘Could it have been her who left the silk token?’
‘Henrietta Howard?’ Her face crumpled with the effort of trying to maintain a serious expression. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that Henrietta was your mother? And the king your father? Oh Charlotte, forgive me, but this sounds like you’ve made up something from a fairy story.’
‘I don’t know why you think it so absurd,’ I muttered, mildly defensive.
‘For a start, wouldn’t she have been too old?’
‘I don’t know, how old was she?’
‘You said yourself she died two years ago, and I remember people talking about how lively she had remained to the very end, even though she was deaf and had reached nearly threescore and twenty years. She would have been in her mid-fifties at the very least when you were born.’
But Louisa is seven years my senior. Perhaps she was Henrietta’s daughter?
‘And didn’t you yourself say she built this beautiful house on the Thames with money given by the king, and she left court to live there when she married her new husband?’ Anna went on. ‘And that’s where she brought up her so-called niece and nephew?’
I nodded.
‘When did she leave court? Did Mr Garrick say?’
‘A few years before the queen died.’
‘Queen Caroline died before we were born, Charlotte. But Monsieur Lavalle might remember the date. Let us ask him.’
‘No, please don’t, Anna. It’s a silly notion. Why don’t we just forget it?’
‘Silly or not, you will always wonder unless we prove it to be impossible.’
‘Very well, then. So long as you don’t tell him why we’re asking.’
‘Don’t be a dolt, of course I won’t,’ she said, standing up with a little groan. ‘Sorry, it’s my legs. I cannot remember them hurting this way with Jean.’
‘You must take it easy, my dearest,’ I said, following her down the stairs. ‘You have still three months to go yet.’
‘Don’t remind me. I wish it could be born tomorrow.’
Downstairs in the parlour the men were still making merry with a bottle of port while arguing about the rights and wrongs of the new acts that Parliament had passed to protect weavers’ wages. We waited patiently for the right moment to speak to Monsieur Lavalle.
‘Anna and I were having a discussion about the olden days,’ she started. ‘Can you remember when Queen Caroline died?’
‘What, another royal query? Whatever kind of mischief are you up to, the pair of you?’ The old boy’s eyes twinkled as he put down his glass. ‘However, since you ask, I remember precisely when it was. 1737. The funeral was at Westminster Abbey on the seventeenth of December, the very day that I married my dearest wife. I remember everyone joking that we’d married just in time to go into mourning, and thinking that business was going to be tough, weaving only black crepe.’
‘Why did you want to know?’ Henri piped up.
Anna gave him a fierce stare. ‘Oh, nothing. Just wondering.’ She took my hand. ‘Come, Charlotte, let’s check whether that naughty lad is still asleep.’
‘So, when were you born, Charlotte?’ she whispered, once we were out of earshot.
‘1741,’ I said. ‘In June.’
‘Four years after Queen Caroline died. Henrietta left court long before that. She couldn’t have been your mother.’
‘But she could have been Louisa’s,’ I said. ‘She is seven years older than me.’
Anna paused. ‘That is a remote chance, I grant you. Henrietta had illegitimate children, and Henrietta was the person for whom the silk was woven. But that does not mean she was your mother. You must give up these foolis
h notions before you are sent to the madhouse, dearest.’
‘But if HH is not our mother, then who? And how did she get hold of the silk?’
‘There is nothing for it, dear friend. You will have to ask your sister.’
21
Cambric: a fine, lightweight French cloth of linen or cotton often used for shirts, handkerchiefs and ruffs. The thread is also used for lacemaking and needlework.
The opportunity came even sooner than I’d hoped. Louisa’s letter arrived the very next day, with an invitation to visit the coming weekend.
But my delight and excitement were tempered with anxiety: how would I be welcomed by Ambrose, whose character I had impugned and whose motives I still mistrusted? How would Peter have changed, after all this time? And most of all, the question with the highest stakes: how to raise the subject of Henrietta Howard with my sister?
All my concerns slipped away when I alighted at Westford Abbots and saw Louisa waiting at the cross with Peter. Yes, it really was my boy, although he seemed to have grown so much that I had to look twice to be certain. He was turning into a young man before my eyes.
‘It’s been far too long,’ my sister said as we embraced, so warmly it was as though nothing harsh had ever passed between us. ‘We have so much to catch up with.’ Indeed, I thought to myself. More than you can imagine.
Peter collected my bag and we began to walk. ‘How are you, Peter? Are you enjoying being back at school?’
He muttered something inaudible, face to the ground.
‘Reply politely to your aunt, Peter,’ Louisa prompted.
‘Yes, thank you, Aunt Agnes,’ he allowed.
‘You wrote about the apple blossom. I hope you will come with me to show me the brightest displays.’
Louisa filled the silence. ‘Of course we shall walk. The blossom is a joy to see, after this long horrid winter,’ she said. ‘And the weather is set to be fair for the next few days, so the farmers say.’