by Nunn, Kayte
Mary had a month to create three new designs. Before Mr Hollander had left, they had gone over her sketchbook and he indicated a couple that might be suitable but that would need more work. ‘They are beautiful, but rather spare,’ he advised. ‘Add more detail. Your sense of geometry and proportion is most pleasing, but give me more.’
She wasn’t entirely certain of his meaning, but she would do her best. The following afternoon, with a belly full of a chicken dinner, she went to work.
When she was convinced she had a design she was happy with, she began to make notes she hoped would assist the weaver when it came to mounting the design. She painstakingly copied the design onto point paper, but then had a further idea. What would the design look like when it was made into a gown? A waistcoat? The wide planes of a man’s chest were easy to imagine and presented less of a conundrum. But when it was pleated and shaped to the curves of a woman’s body? She knew she would have to think carefully about that, for it would be too late once the fabric was woven.
As she hunched over the paper she saw in her mind’s eye the figure of Mr Hollander, could not help herself from imagining one of her designs as a waistcoat to fit those broad shoulders. How fine he would look. She hummed to herself as she worked.
Over the following weeks she found herself painting by lamplight and sacrificing sleep to complete the first few designs, worrying over the contrasts of light and shade, the exact proportions of the meandering, serpentine curve of a stem and how to transfer that to the paper, which colours to choose. Time and again she found herself returning to the plants before her, aiming to capture their exact form, to demonstrate what made them distinctive.
Guy had told her of a three-dimensional shading technique. ‘Points rentrées,’ he said. ‘It will make the flowers come alive on the cloth.’ She returned to the weaver’s loft, asking questions of the journeyman, learning exactly how he worked in order to achieve the effect she was after. He received her graciously, and patiently explained the process, but still the task was arduous and the standards she set herself exacting.
‘I don’t know why I ever thought I could do this!’ she cried one evening, throwing another discarded design on the fire. ‘It is impossible.’
‘You can do it,’ Frances soothed. ‘Nothing worthwhile ever comes easily. Sleep on the matter and then start again in the morning.’
‘Oh, I suppose,’ said Mary, tiredly rubbing her arm across her forehead. ‘But I wish to create something different, something new, a design of the like that people have never before seen. That is the hard part.’
‘I might know of something to help,’ said Frances. ‘A particular book.’
The next afternoon, her sister returned from the hospital with a large volume under her arm, and watched in anticipation as Mary studied the frontispiece. ‘A Curious Herbal,’ she read, ‘by Elizabeth Blackwell.’
‘I thought it might prove useful,’ Frances said, a hopeful expression on her face.
‘But where did you find it?’ Mary asked.
Her sister put a finger to her lips. ‘Do not ask, but I must return it in a few days’ time, before anyone notices that it is missing.’
The book contained illustrations of medicinal plants, marigold, lady’s mantle, frothy elderflower, lavender and chamomile, melissa, evening primrose and feverfew, senna and rhubarb, as well as marsh mallow, hollyhock and horse chestnut, blessed thistle, hawthorn, witch hazel, dandelion and burdock. Some of these Mary had encountered on her walks, but many were unknown to her. She found herself drawn to the chapters that described the deadliest plants, for they were among the most alluring: nightshade, the pretty flowers of monkshood, the red fruits of laurel, the purple of belladonna, the freckle-throated foxglove, the orange berries of cuckoo pint and the delicate crumpled-silk petals of scarlet poppies.
As she turned the pages, a design began to appear in her mind’s eye and a sharp fizz in her stomach told her that she was on the trail of something new, something dazzling and original, work that would have the fine ladies of the city clamouring for her designs. She could not wait to begin. She imagined combining the flowers and berries of some of the most poisonous plants, for not only were they beautiful on the surface but, she felt sure, a bold woman would appreciate that behind the pattern of their curling stems and bell-like flowers lay a darker message.
Finally, some three weeks later, Mary had four drawings, together with a carefully annotated, detailed paper pattern for each.
As well as the poisonous plant design, she had devised three that included not only the more traditional flowers of columbine, cornflower and campion, stitchwort and traveller’s joy, sweet peas and roses, morning glory and lily, but also insects: the wasp and the beetle, and as well as the common butterfly she included the caterpillar, fat and green, in the hope that these would set her work apart.
She took them to Guy, who raised his eyebrows as he studied them, but agreed that he could weave them. ‘Though they are unlike anything I have hereto seen.’
Despite Guy’s dour tone, Mary was pleased by the comment, for she did not wish to copy the work of the male designers. Patrick Hollander had wanted something new and arresting to the eye, and that was what she would give him.
She had made a careful copy of each and so sent a set of the designs to Oxleigh by the morning mail, barely able to contain her impatience for a response.
THIRTEEN
December 1768, Oxleigh
Rowan lay in bed, pinching herself to stay awake, certain that her arms would be blue with bruises by the morning. It was the night of the cold moon, the last of the old year, and she planned to gather the leaves of the witch hazel, for they would make a potent skin tonic. There was a fine tree on the common about half a mile beyond the town’s main street, and leaves struck by the light of the full moon were said to be the most potent, but she had to gather them before dawn. She was also anxious to explore further afield to see if she could find red clover for the draught her mistress required.
She yawned, trying not to disturb Alice, who snored beside her, and surrendered to the tiredness that had threatened to wash over her many hours before. A moment later, she jerked awake again and, determined not to miss her chance, she slid out of bed.
Once on the main street, her way was lit by the moon, which hung large and low against a cloudless sky. Not a soul was about. A thick frost had coated the cobbles and Rowan shivered, gathering her cloak about her for warmth and walking as fast as she dared on their slippery surface.
As she approached the common, she came towards the long, low barn that stood at its edge. To her surprise, light spilled out of the doorway, and as she drew closer she heard a low rumble of voices, jeers, and occasionally the clash of metal, the screech of an animal in pain.
Drawn by the sound, she crept along the flint wall of the barn, keeping to the shadows. The door was open a crack and she stood behind it, craning her neck to see around. The smell of ale and of sweat rolled towards her as a warm fug, the noise almost deafening, and what she saw nearly caused her to cry out. A swarm of men, plenty of whom she recognised – the butcher, the man who sold his cheeses at the market, the chandler, the saddler and more – were gathered in a circle, shouting and calling, chanting, occasionally gesticulating and grunting, spitting and swigging from flagons, intent on the spectacle before them. No one noticed the young woman watching from the doorway.
At the centre of the circle, the chaff swept clear, was the bloodiest thing she had ever observed.
A cockpit.
Two birds faced each other, leaping and scratching, wings flapping, their neck feathers fluffed out like a ruff, their crows almost drowned out by the shouts of the men. Rowan saw the glint of metal spurs attached to their claws, a gash in the eye of one of the birds.
A cockfight.
She had seen her father slaughter a pig, watched as the blood streamed out from the gash in its neck, observed her mother wring the neck of a chicken, and had heard of those who laid wag
ers on the outcome of a fight, but this was different. This baiting of animals – how could it be enjoyed as a sport?
Then, as she inched further around the door, she gasped as she caught sight of her master, rusty marks on his snowy breeches, a leer on his face. He stood almost inside the circle, using a stick to thrust the cocks back to the centre of the pit. She recoiled as disgust and fear ran an icy trail through her veins. Rowan had believed him to be a gentleman, but in that moment he more closely resembled a savage.
The next morning, as she lit the fire in the drawing room, her master entered, bringing with him the smell of sour ale. His fine waistcoat was awry, his hair mussed and the insides of his pockets hung out, as if he had been in a hurry to empty them. He squinted at her, red-eyed, as if surprised to see her there, before collapsing on the chaise. ‘Lady luck has not smiled upon me of late,’ he said with a sigh.
‘No, sir,’ said Rowan quietly. When she had returned to the house in the early hours – with the leaves she needed tucked carefully into a pocket – she had lain awake until dawn as the scene she had witnessed played through her mind, and she now found it hard to regard her master with the respect she once had for him.
Later, as she returned to clear the breakfast dishes, she heard the rising sound of an argument, Patrick’s voice placating, Caroline’s loud and furious. She stopped a few inches from the door, uncertain whether to enter.
‘Do not think I am unaware of what happens under this roof,’ Caroline said. ‘The maid must go.’
Rowan froze. What could she have done to offend her mistress? Had she taken too long to prepare the draught Caroline wanted? Or had Patrick spotted her peering into the barn?
‘As I have told you before, you are seeing things that simply do not exist,’ Patrick replied wearily. ‘As if a respected merchant would concern himself with a lowborn maid. There is absolutely no reason to dismiss Alice. Besides, she is good at her job, you’ve said it yourself, and in case you hadn’t noticed, there is a lack of suitable servants until next year’s hiring.’
Rowan was able to move again as she heard Alice’s name, not hers. The memories surfaced: Alice’s absences from the house with no explanation; Alice outside the master’s bedchamber; Alice and the master in the back recesses of the garden, their heads inclined towards each other, his hand on her elbow almost a caress. It seemed the mistress was not unaware of such things either.
‘Well, this cannot possibly continue,’ Caroline said, changing tack. ‘You are out until all hours and then incapable of doing an honest day’s work. You spend more than we have. Do not think that I am incapable of understanding the ledgers.’
‘They are nothing to be troubling yourself with,’ Patrick said. ‘There is ebb and flow in every business. If I am not overly concerned, you should not be. Trust me, my dear.’
‘Do not take me for a fool,’ her voice rose. ‘You traipse about the country doing who-knows-what and are almost never here. I fail to see that business calls you away quite so often.’
‘If there were more to keep me here, I might be more inclined to stay,’ he said coldly.
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Rowan could almost taste the bitterness in her mistress’s voice.
‘I wonder if I have married a barren woman. There are those in the town who mock me for this, I am sure of it.’
Rowan stifled a gasp at her master’s cruelty, though in truth she was no longer shocked by it.
‘Well, perhaps, husband, if you were at home more often …’ Caroline bit back.
Rowan knew she must redouble her efforts to make the draught her mistress so desperately desired. Caroline Hollander had shown kindness to her, and she could not bear to see the master treat her so ill. Besides, Rowan knew, a settled household was a far better prospect for her own continued employment than a troubled one.
On a Sunday afternoon early in the new year, when her work was done, Rowan wandered along the path that ran alongside the river and edged the town like a ribbon. She wrapped her mother’s red cloak around her and took a deep lungful of the crisp, sweet air then raised her face to the pale sun. It was bitterly cold, and her breath came in clouds as she walked, but she had been indoors for too long, knew herself to be far happier outside among meadows and barley fields and under a great canopy of sky. As she followed the riverbank she searched for the herbs she might need. She spied chickweed, hawthorn, coltsfoot and elderberry, making a note of their locations, planning to return and collect them in spring, when the hawthorn would flower, and late summer when there would be elderberries to make into a syrup for winter sore throats and chills. But of the red clover and henbane she required, there was no sign.
She was deeply absorbed in her search when, from the corner of her eye she saw a sudden, swift flash of rust. There it was, on the path up ahead of her. A thick brush waving in the air, a pale muzzle coming towards her. Now it was in front of her. She stopped and they watched each other, the animal’s yellow eyes staring directly into her own. She stayed completely still, felt her blood thrum in her ears. She prayed that it would not make a sound and held her breath, only letting it out as, with a twitch of its tail, the fox trotted past her. A fox’s call was commonly believed to be a harbinger of death, and such superstition bit hard among country people, herself included.
Relieved at its silence, she continued on her way until she came to a watermill, where a large paddlewheel churned the water into frothing whiteness. Fascinated but unnerved by the roar of the thing, she drew as close as she dared to the deep pool of water. She was quickly chilled by the icy spray that landed on her face and arms, and withdrew a safe distance away.
The slippery quality of water had always unsettled her. She frequently dreamed of being carried away on a fast-moving stream and couldn’t comprehend how something fluid could have such power. Even in the heat of summer she had to be cajoled by her younger brothers to wade into the river’s murky green depths, scared and thrilled in equal parts by the pull of the current as it flowed between her legs and pulsed through her outstretched fingers. She had never been more than waist-deep in water, had never the courage to immerse herself, could not imagine how one could possibly move against such a current without one’s feet firmly on the ground. Her brothers hadn’t shared her fear; diving, disappearing and then reappearing from beneath the water’s opaque surface. They jeered encouragement at her, but she would not let her body rise up and float, nor untether her feet, lest she be carried away from the safety of the bank.
As she lingered on the memory of summer days gone by, she watched the figure of a young man up ahead. As she drew closer she saw that it was Tommy and she hurried to catch up, breathless by the time she reached him, wincing as her stays pinched her tender skin.
‘Rowan!’ he cried, a smile lighting up his face. ‘Good day to you. What brings you here?’
‘A stroll,’ she said, for even though he had witnessed a little of her skill with herbs, she dared not reveal her purpose in this instance. ‘And you?’
‘I was on my way back from a delivery. Don’t tell anyone but I took the long way – I like to walk by the river whenever I get the chance.’
She smiled back at him, feeling a thrill of pleasure at coming upon him so unexpectedly, for he was the closest thing to a friend that she had in the town. ‘Even when it’s so cold out?’ she asked, noticing the thinness of his smock.
‘Don’t even feel it,’ he said, throwing his arms wide. ‘And I can breathe here.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think I might suffocate inside, especially when the fire smokes so.’
‘Give me the sky above my head, the fields beneath my feet and the river beside me, and I’m a happy lad.’
‘If that’s the case, shouldn’t you have been a farmer?’ She snuck a glance at his merry face, liking this boy who was as fond of nature as she.
‘Labourer is about the best I could hope to be, and there’s no future there. No, it’s fortunate that I’v
e a trade to learn. There’s money in meat, so my guv’nor says. And I intend to have the best butchery in Oxleigh one day, you’ll see.’
Rowan laughed at his bold statement, but was secretly pleased that he had ambition. It was most agreeable to be around someone who had a thought to better themselves.
‘You think that is funny?’ he asked, a hurt expression clouding his normally sunny features.
‘No, no,’ she rushed to reassure him. ‘If anything, it is that I am impressed at your vision for the future.’
‘And what is yours, then?’
Rowan paused. She had given little thought to such matters. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I hope to remain in Oxleigh. Help those who need it.’
‘You mean like you helped me when I was hurt?’
‘Exactly. Perhaps one day to be more than a maid,’ she dared to admit.
He smiled broadly at her. ‘I, too, am impressed by your ambition,’ he said. ‘You are not like most other girls, for you are not concerned with trifling, empty-headed notions. You are a grand person to associate with, Rowan.’
She put a hand to her cheek, feeling the scarred ridges extending from her eye, suddenly bashful at the roses that bloomed there at his words.
FOURTEEN
Now
‘Hey, custard guts!’ a boy called out.
‘We heard they only let you in ’cause your father’s the headmaster,’ said another.
‘Yeah, and they put you in Silk House ’cause they didn’t want you any closer to the school in case you infect the place.’
Thea, on her way to the hockey pitches at the end of the day, her favourite stick tucked under her arm, rounded a corner and spotted a group of younger boys and three of the new girls several yards ahead.
‘Ah bless,’ she heard Sabrina reply, saccharine-sweet. ‘Is that the best you’ve got? You really will have to try harder.’ She laughed in their faces and turned to the others. ‘Come on, girls, we’ll be late for practice.’