by Liz Trenow
Now all these years later I held in my hands that very same sampler, still unfinished. But what now caused me to gasp was the design of those pieces of fabric tacked to the sampler ready to be appliquéd. There was the exotic bird, the twisted tree, the fiery dragon and the silver-roofed pagoda. It was that silk, the Chinoiserie brocade woven for Henrietta Howard, the precious royal silk that our mother had somehow got hold of and used as a token when she took me to the Foundling Hospital.
Sitting at the foot of that same wardrobe I understood at last why, on that day we brought the bundle home from the auction, that silk had felt so familiar and had both fascinated and unsettled me all at the same time. It was burdened with powerful emotions from that long-ago day, of curiosity, guilt and fear. But questions now flooded my mind: whose sampler was it? Louisa was no seamstress, which would account for the uneven cross-stitching. Where had she obtained the silk? Had it been left to her by our mother, or discovered after her death? Now, surely, was the time to ask.
As I wrapped it back into the tissue paper I noticed a small brown mark of dried blood on the pale worsted.
In the hours that passed after discovering the sampler my resolve began to falter. Was it fair, so soon after Ambrose’s death, to risk asking Louisa to reveal distressing memories? Yet how could I delay, when this sampler must hold the key to the mysteries I had for so long desired to understand?
I was due to return to London the following day to make sure that all was well at the shop, and though I planned to return again the following week, this might be my last chance to discover the truth.
That evening after Peter retired Louisa and I went to the drawing room, as usual. I have always loved this space, so light and peaceful, with windows on two sides giving an outlook into the garden. A golden afterglow of sunset filled the room and we threw open the windows to breathe in the sweet evening air, so welcome after our dusty tasks.
She brought in two wine glasses and the second bottle of the squire’s blackberry wine.
‘Here’s to my dearest sister,’ I said. ‘To your love and your courage. I’m sorry I have to leave you tomorrow, but I’ll be back just as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you, dearest. Having you here at my side has meant everything to me.’ She smiled, and in that smile I could see signs of her former sweet self, now that the strain of the past few weeks was beginning to lift.
Still I hesitated, reluctant to disturb this pleasant scene; just the two of us in amicable company, knowing that Peter was safe and well in the room above and – God forgive me – without fear of Ambrose and his unpredictable moods. But the hidden presence of the sampler seemed to nip at my shoulder. Now that it had emerged from its long hiding, its secrets must be told.
I went to retrieve it from the dresser drawer where I’d hidden it. ‘I found this when I was turning out the wardrobe in my chamber,’ I said, as casually as possible, handing it to her. ‘Is it something you want to keep?’
The shock of recognition was clear. Her face drained and her fingers shook as she placed her glass on the side table. She looked up at me and then back at the sampler again.
‘Perhaps I could help you finish it?’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady. ‘Those Chinese figures are very beautiful, are they not? I recognised them at once; they’re from the same silk I showed you that I’d bought at the auction with Anna. Do you remember?’
A long silence followed, save for the harsh alarm call of a bird in the garden warning of a cat, perhaps, or an approaching jackdaw? She took a breath and for a moment I hoped she might be about to speak, but she sighed and fell quiet again.
‘Louisa?’
At last, she looked up and sat back in her chair. ‘My dearest, I hoped you would never have to know.’
‘Know what, sister?’ Now my heart filled with dread, and I wished I’d left the sampler hidden. Sometimes it is better not to know. But it was too late to take it back.
‘It is a dark and difficult chapter of my life that even now it troubles me to recall.’
‘Then stop, dearest. I don’t want you to be further hurt. Let’s forget I even mentioned it.’ I went to take the sampler from her hand but she pulled it back, gripping so fiercely I feared she might prick herself on that same needle.
‘When you showed the silk to me at the shop that day I feared the whole edifice of our deceit might come tumbling down. But you seemed to forget about it, and when you raised it again, I persuaded you not to pursue it.’
Edifice of deceit? A cold hand crept into my chest. Had I been deliberately deceived?
She took up the bottle of wine and refilled her glass before passing it across to me.
‘I can see that the time has come for you to know the truth.’
32
French knots: a favoured decorative stitch used to create accents in a design. The size can be increased with additional turns of the thread around the needle.
‘Do you recall me telling you how I was taken from my mother and placed with an aunt? And how Ambrose took me on as a maid?’
‘Then after a few years you became his housekeeper, and later he asked you to be his wife?’
Louisa nodded and paused a second, forehead furrowing as she searched for words. ‘But those years were not as straightforward as I painted them.’
‘My dear, what happened?’
‘This is the shame I hoped never to reveal to you, nor anyone else.’ She spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her. ‘You see, before I met Ambrose I had already set my heart on another man.’
I could breathe again. If this was the extent of her secret, it was of little consequence. ‘It is no shame for a woman to have many suitors, dearest. Why do you say so?’
‘He was not a suitor, Agnes. He was a client.’
‘A client? What kind of business were you engaged in?’ My question was genuinely innocent; I had no inkling of what she meant.
Her cheeks flooded crimson as the wine stain on her lips. ‘I was a streetwalker.’
Of course I knew the term but it did not register, not at once. ‘You walked the streets?’ I said, stupidly.
‘I was a whore, Agnes.’ She spat out the words, staring at a point past me, grimacing as though the memory caused her physical pain. ‘A common whore.’
I shook my head, still struggling to understand. Surely this was all wrong? How could my respectable sister ever have been a street girl?
‘Please don’t think badly of me, Agnes.’ She dropped her head into her hands. ‘I had no choice. My aunt and uncle forced me into it, to pay for my bed and lodging. I hated it, of course. It was degrading and dangerous and I pleaded with them to set me free, but I was trapped because they handled all the transactions. They made good money from me.’
I took a gulp of wine, shaken by the horror of her revelation, the cruelty of it. Our mother had entrusted her child to the safe care of this couple and they had repaid this trust by making her walk the streets. ‘I would never think badly of anything you do, dearest sister. You must not be ashamed, for you had no choice. I know how that feels. Remember how I was forced myself, by that vile man at the Manor? I had no choice either.’
She nodded.
‘Anyway, that is all in the past. We are both strong, and we have both survived.’
Now she began to speak, the words rushing over themselves like water from an overflowing well. ‘But there is more, Agnes, for I found myself with child. I had already known this man for several months and he paid my aunt and uncle well in return for my exclusive services. He treated me so tenderly that I imagined myself to be in love with him. Although he was a good deal older, he was so handsome, so wealthy and a widower, and he seemed so fond towards me that I began to entertain the hope that he would make me an honest woman, poor deluded fool that I was. Why would a respectable merchant want to marry a slut?’
‘You were never a . . .’ I started.
‘But that is what he called me when I eventually plucked up the
courage to tell him of my condition. He flew into a great rage and sent me from his house, forbidding me ever to return.’
‘Who was this terrible man, Louisa, who treated you so?’
She ignored me, talking on.
‘A kind of madness gripped me, dearest, for the terrible shame of it I suppose. One day I simply headed for Blackfriars Bridge, thinking that I might kill myself. But I didn’t have the courage, not then or even later. I could not return to my aunt’s house so I sold my body on the streets for a few more weeks – until my condition became so obvious that no man would have me – and managed to save enough to rent a hovel, which is where the child was born. I was starving and desperate, but even then I could not bring myself to end our lives.’
My ribs ached from holding my breath. ‘Whatever happened to the baby?’
‘Someone told me about a new place that had been set up to the west of the city, the Foundling Hospital.’
My neck began to prickle, as though something unseen and terrifying was creeping up behind me, too terrible to face. ‘You took your child to the Hospital?’ I gasped. ‘Just like our mother did?’
She nodded. ‘It was just a few weeks after that I learned of the vicar who was seeking a housemaid and went to apply for the post. And that is when I began the sampler, once I was settled there. For something to remember her by. But I am no seamstress, as you know. It defeated me and I never had the heart to finish it.’ There was a half-smile on Louisa’s lips, her gaze far away, deep in the memories.
‘She was the dearest thing, a perfect child. I called her Agnes,’ she whispered, kneeling forward on the carpet before me and reaching up to cup my cheeks with warm, soft palms as though I were something infinitely precious.
‘Don’t you see?’ she whispered. ‘It was you. Agnes Potton.’
There was a roaring in my ears, so loud it was almost painful, and I began to shake, unable to listen any more, unable to bear her touch. Pushing her roughly away, I began to pace the floor, rubbing my face in my hands, trying to wash away the confusion. My cap became dislodged and I threw it to the floor. Nothing made sense.
‘That’s right, my darling.’ She stood up now and walked towards me, her face beaming, reaching out for me. ‘I am your mother.’
Her smile was too bright, false and almost menacing, like a jester. The air felt heavy and viscous, thick with deception, hard to breathe.
‘No!’ I yelled, arms flailing to fight her off. ‘You’re lying.’ What kind of warped trick was this? ‘This cannot be right. You are my sister. And you are only seven years older than me. How can you be my mother?’
She stopped a few feet away. ‘You are right,’ she said, ‘about the lying. I have been lying to you ever since we met, dearest. But I am not lying now, that I promise. All that is over with. What I am telling you now is the absolute truth.’
Recoiling in disgust, I pushed her roughly out of the way, hurrying out of the room. Where to go? Gasping for air, I ran out into the garden, across the damp grass to the old apple tree, perhaps something, anything, solid and familiar.
‘No, no. It can’t be,’ I shouted. ‘Don’t let it be. I don’t want it to be like this.’ But the tree gave no comfort: as I clasped my arms around its trunk and pressed my cheek hard against the rough bark, it left my skin scraped and raw.
Blinded by tears now, I ran back to the path. Ahead of me was the gate, and beyond that the great solid form of the church silhouetted against the darkening sky. But it offered no sense of peace or solace; that was Ambrose’s realm, a place reeking of hellfire and, ultimately, of death.
I began to pace once more, not knowing which way to turn. Along the path on either side of me stood the old yew trees, dark shadows against the sky. They had often appeared sinister or even threatening, especially when they creaked in the wind. But now, in the still of evening, the only sound was the gentle goodnight twitters of sparrows nesting in their dense branches, and their presence seemed to calm my thoughts.
What times had they witnessed, these great ancient trees, in their centuries of growing? What displays of human joy and tragedy, what ordinary lives, what extraordinary events? My feet slowed. The sky above me was a deep, luminous blue, speckled with early stars. It was not cold, even now, but the air was damp and laden with dew and I shivered, pulling my shawl close around my shoulders.
There were footsteps on the gravel behind me, the warmth of a hand on my shoulder and a gentle whisper: ‘Dearest, I am so sorry.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, still dizzied with confusion.
‘Come, let me help you up.’ She cupped my elbow. ‘Let us go inside, and we can talk calmly and sensibly.’
She led me indoors, sat me down, poured more wine and bade me take a sip, then another. She took her seat and waited quietly. I could not meet her eyes. That face had been so dear to me, every movement and every gesture so familiar, yet she was a stranger now. How could she possibly be my mother? We were so alike, two peas in a pod, everyone said. Of course we were sisters.
I finished the glass and she filled it again. But even the burn of the wine slipping down my throat could not ease the ice in my heart.
‘But you are only seven years older than me,’ I said again.
She looked into her glass, as though it held a secret. Then, eventually, she looked up.
‘I lied to you, Agnes. I was fifteen when I gave birth to you.’
I gaped at her. ‘You are fifteen years older than me? How is that possible? You look so young.’
‘At any other time, your words would be flattering, dearest. But I am afraid that it is the truth. Remember? I said there would be no more lies.’
The anger was rising in my chest once more. ‘So why? Why did you tell me so many lies?’
‘I never wanted to, Agnes. Had it been my own choice . . .’
‘Then why? WHY?’ My shout reverberated around the silent house and I remembered that upstairs my son was sleeping. I lowered my voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this long ago?’
She took a deep breath. ‘It was part of my agreement with Ambrose. So that you would never guess that I was your mother.’
In that moment I hated her, wanted to bawl at her, hit her, anything to stop her saying those words, the very words I had wanted to hear all of my life, now violated by their terrible deceit and poisoned by that brute Ambrose. She was not my mother. How could she be? How could she ever be?
Through the tumult in my head I could hear her voice continuing quietly and calmly. ‘You must understand, dearest. I was but a child myself, ignorant and terrified of having to spend the rest of my life on the streets. Giving you away was the hardest thing I have ever done, and the grief of it nearly broke me. Even to this day the memory of it is etched on my heart. All I ever wanted was to have you back again.’
‘Why did you not come looking for me, then?’
‘Ah, I so wished to, my dearest. You cannot know how much I wished it. I felt your loss like the loss of a limb and I often dreamed that you were back in my arms. But I was in no position, a lowly maid with no home of my own. The years went by and I had to resign myself to never seeing you again. I rose through the ranks and became Ambrose’s housekeeper, as you know. Even then, how would I keep a child?’
Her dilemma was all too familiar to me. I should have felt sympathy, but anger still burned in my heart.
‘It was when he asked for my hand in marriage that I summoned the courage to tell him about you and to bargain with him, asking if we might search for you. It took him several days to give me an answer. He agreed with my proposal, but on one condition. As a man of the church, he said, he could not allow it to be known that his wife had borne a child out of wedlock. It would cause too much scandal. So he made me vow that, should we ever trace you – and I suppose he never believed that we would – you would be known as my sister, a sister born just seven years after me, so that no one would suspect the truth. Imagine my despair: how could I think of agreeing to such a dread
ful deception? But I was in no position to argue. My only thought, every moment of every day and night, was that I might once more be able to hold you in my arms, and this was my only chance of finding you again.’
So this was the so-called ‘edifice of deceit’. My mind still struggled to make sense of everything she was telling me. I felt untethered, unstable, like walking on quicksand, disconnected from the world. Even this room with its familiar furnishings and memories, both happy and troubled, now felt strange, as though I were seeing everything for the first time.
Louisa knelt at my feet once more, taking my hands, her upturned face desperate now, beseeching. ‘My darling, please forgive me. Sister or daughter, it makes no difference to my love for you.’
She had lied for so long that my place in the world and everything in my life was being turned upside down. ‘How can I forgive you, when I can no longer tell what is the truth and what is not any more?’ I shouted.
Her eyes shone with tears. ‘My darling, I would never have lied to you if I’d had my own way. It was the cost I paid for being able to have you by my side again. Like the arrangement between us for . . .’ She pointed towards the room upstairs.
Peter. My heart seemed to falter in my chest. My beautiful son. Of course I understood only too well the pain of giving him up and would have travelled the earth to find him again, even given my life for him had it been asked for. And of course I would have accepted almost any condition if it meant the chance of being reunited with him again.
But my anger still burned. How could she have deceived me for so long? ‘Why tell me now, Louisa?’