by Nunn, Kayte
Thea turned the book over to read the words stamped in faded gold leaf on the spine: The Silk Merchant’s House.
‘Oh fantastic, thank you.’
‘You’ll have to read it here. Rare books can’t leave the library. School rules I’m afraid.’
‘Of course,’ said Thea, glancing at her watch; she had another hour or so of free time left before lunch and then her afternoon classes. She opened the book to the first page. It was only a small book but the paper was wafer-thin and the type close-set and dense.
‘But I can put it aside for you – if you should need to consult it again.’
‘I almost certainly will.’
Mr Dickens withdrew with a friendly nod, and Thea made herself comfortable at a desk. She carefully leafed through the book, and at the back she discovered a folded piece of coarse cloth had been tucked between the final pages and the binding. It was yellowed with age and foxed with mildew, and she unfolded it, intrigued. An old bookmark perhaps?
Tucked within the folds of the cloth was another piece of fabric, a narrow strip a few centimetres wide of something that was almost certainly silk, probably once white, and woven with a pattern of purple flower heads, a silver web and the edge of what appeared to be a number of black insect legs. She ran her fingers over the flowers. Could it be an example of the silk merchant’s wares? Would it really have survived that long? Perhaps, she supposed, especially if the book was rarely used. She felt a small thrill of excitement: this was when history came alive for her, not treaties, coronations or battles, but mundane objects that had been made by another’s hands, someone now long gone from this earth but their work remaining for others to wonder at.
She reluctantly set it aside and turned to the front of the book. The next hour flew by as Thea picked her way through the first chapter. It started with the head of the family, Patrick Hollander, who was, by this account, a prosperous silk merchant. After a brief scan of his early life – she read that he came to Oxleigh upon his marriage to Caroline – the chapter concerned itself with the building of the house, going into great detail as to its construction. There were orders for bricks, the names of the master craftsmen hired from London to lay the floors and fix the slate tiles – quarried in Wales – to the roof, the crafting of the timber-lined drawing room … the delivery of the town’s first pianoforte … the list went on.
As time ticked away, she flicked towards the middle of the book, reading of a fire that had destroyed the back part of the house, nearly two decades after it had been built. A young woman – a maidservant – had died in the blaze. As she moved on, she was interrupted by a slight cough next to her, and she glanced up to see that the librarian had returned. ‘It occurred to me. The local records office might also have papers that relate to the house’s history. That is if you are interested.’
Thea knew she would be. ‘Oh heavens,’ she said, glancing at her watch, ‘I’d better run. I can’t be late for lunch.’ She handed the book to Mr Dickens, and gathered her notes. ‘Thanks again,’ she said as the door closed behind her and she flew out of the room.
According to the school calendar, the staff ate together every other Tuesday of term, beginning in the first week, and punctuality was expected. Thea got lost on the way to the staff dining room, though, going first to the main school dining room, which was already full of students. As she poked her head around the door she noticed that the girls were all sitting together on a table separate from the boys, and she made a mental note to see if something might be done about that in the future. It was important that they mix with the boys.
When she eventually reached the smaller dining room, at the other end of a long corridor, she was the last to arrive. There was only one seat left and she grimaced inwardly as she saw that it was next to Gareth Pope. At least Claire, a beacon in a purple silk top, was sitting opposite, a couple of places down the table. She slid into the empty chair as the headmaster cleared his throat to say grace.
As the meal was served, Thea turned to her left. ‘Early start this morning?’ she asked.
Gareth Pope looked at her as if she’d said something impolite, and Thea couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d made an enemy of him, although on what grounds she had no idea.
‘That was me you nearly bowled over on the lane to Summerbourne,’ she explained.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he passed her a bowl of green beans. ‘You must have me confused with someone else. Trust me, I wasn’t anywhere near Summerbourne this morning. It was pretty foggy, though, could have been anyone.’
‘My mistake,’ said Thea, reddening as she helped herself to the vegetables. God, was she losing it? She kicked herself for having accused him. She’d been convinced at the time that it was him, but the more she thought about it, the more she realised that she hadn’t actually seen the person particularly clearly. And he was right, it had been foggy.
She turned to the teacher on the other side of her and introduced herself, becoming embroiled in a spirited discussion about the merits of the English cricket team set to play in Australia for the Ashes in a few months’ time. She noted the eyebrows raised in surprise as she held her own, familiar with not only the Australian but also the English players selected for the team.
The background sound of Thea’s childhood was Richie Benaud commentating summer matches, the thwack of the ball and waves of applause when a batsman scored a six; backyard and beach games with her mum as wicketkeeper, Pip in the outfield; the whole family sweltering at the MCG for the Boxing Day Test. Every. Single. Year. She suspected that her father wished that he had had sons instead of daughters. Their nicknames alone were telling: Theo for her and Mr Pip for her sister.
‘Ooh, dead baby!’ came the murmurs from further along the table. Thea turned to see in the middle of the table a long rectangular tin containing a pale, lumpy mass and leaking a bubbling red substance, like Hammer-horror blood, at the edges.
‘The oldies go nuts for a proper pud. Jam roly-poly: suet sponge with jam. Stodge. Your basic heart attack on a plate,’ said Gareth, seeing her horrified expression. ‘Fancy some?’
Thea shook her head. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
EIGHTEEN
Now
‘Wait for me!’
No one could miss the brightly attired woman. Thea was reminded of a tree in autumn when the leaves were turning, and the sight of Claire’s swirling mulberry and saffron dress and coppery bracelets was a cheering one. She watched as Claire jogged over, bangles jangling like a wind chime, to where she stood at the entrance to the school. For a change, Thea wasn’t the one who was late. The combined effect of the constant alarms – she had considered throwing the grey pebble across the room like a frisbee on several occasions – and having to walk the girls across to school every morning meant that she was where she should be, several minutes before she should be, for possibly the first time in her life.
Her father, of course, had been a stickler for timekeeping, and Thea’s tardiness a constant source of frustration to him. She had tried her best, she’d had her watch set ten minutes early for years now, but somehow she could never measure up to his strict standards of punctuality. It would doubtless have amused him no end that Oxleigh was responsible for her finally managing to arrive promptly.
‘You’re free on Saturday night, right?’ Claire asked once she had reached her.
‘I was thinking of a quiet one, actually; it’s been a big week. Why?’
‘The beginning of the first term is always shattering, especially when you’re new, but there’s no way I’m going to let you stay in. There’s a party over past Little Coldwell.’
‘Where?’
‘I keep forgetting you don’t know this area. It’s about ten miles north of Oxleigh. Anyway, it should be good. A friend of a friend lives over that way. It’ll do you good to get out of the college for a while. Realise there’s more to this place than textbooks and pimply schoolboys – and girls – and pugnacious PE teachers.’ Claire grinne
d.
‘So, you’d noticed?’
‘He’s got the wind up because you showed him up on the hockey fields this week – so the staffroom scuttlebutt has it, anyway.’
They shared a smile and Claire headed to her first class of the day, Thea to the library. She kicked through the leaves that carpeted the gravel pathway, feeling the bracing nip of autumn, relishing the cool air on her face. She’d been so caught up in the unfamiliarity of everything, of finding not only her way around the school but also getting to know the girls in her care, that she’d forgotten to enjoy something as simple as the change of a season. All that she’d left behind in Australia seemed a long way away. She still carried something with her, though, and it was weighing her down more than she cared to admit.
Barnaby Dickens, the librarian, seemed surprised to see her. ‘Back so soon?’ he asked, his unruly eyebrows beetling at her from behind his thick glasses. This time the flower in his buttonhole was a deep purply-black. ‘Hellebore,’ he said as he noticed her looking at it. ‘Beautiful, are they not? Poisonous, though.’
Thea nodded. ‘I thought I’d take another look at that book on the house.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He hurried off to fetch it and Thea glanced around the beautiful room, noticing the shafts of light that shone through the windows, illuminating some shelves and casting shadows on others. So much history. Her father’s, and now she was creating some of hers.
‘That’s most odd,’ Mr Dickens said as he returned. ‘Most odd indeed.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s not there. The book. I could have sworn I replaced it yesterday.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand: how could it have disappeared?’ She tried not to let her frustration show.
‘Damned if I know. I’ll have to check with the assistant librarian. She was the only other person here aside from myself.’
‘Do you have a digitised system?’ Thea asked, looking pointedly at the computer that sat on his desk. ‘That might tell us.’
‘Yes, yes of course. Give me a minute.’
He went around to the front of the desk and tapped a few keys. Waited. ‘Now, let me see … Oh. It says here that the book has been checked out.’
‘But I thought you said it wasn’t to be removed,’ said Thea.
‘I shall have to make enquiries.’
‘So, who has borrowed it?’
‘I am afraid I am not at liberty to say.’
Thea sighed. ‘Is there anything else on the house?’
He shook his head. ‘You might try the town library. And the records office, as I mentioned earlier in the week.’
‘All right, thank you, I will.’
‘I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as it is returned.’
Frustrated, Thea spent a while among the shelves of books on Tudor England. She was impressed by the depth of material and pleased to see a couple of the texts that she considered to be essential among the selection. Wandering further into the library, she climbed a stepladder to the higher shelves, where some of the oldest books were housed. She was about to reach for one that looked interesting when Mr Dickens materialised below her, a book in his hands. ‘Miss Rust, I thought you might find this interesting,’ he said, holding it out to her, as if it were a peace offering. ‘Given your area of study. Witchcraft and persecution, isn’t it? Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England?’
Intrigued, she climbed down the ladder and took the small leather-bound volume from him. The Legend of the Handsel Sisters. ‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to the frontispiece and seeing a linocut illustration of four gnarled trees. ‘Thank you, Mr Dickens.’
She found a seat and quickly became absorbed in a story that, she realised with growing excitement, could potentially prove extremely valuable to her studies. When she turned towards the back of the book, the addendum for further reading caused her heart to race. It listed the names of a dozen or so women, followed by dates – spanning nearly three hundred years, from the early sixteenth century to the late eighteenth century – and locations. All the women were from Wiltshire, and one was from Oxleigh: Rowan Caswell, maid, silk merchant’s house. She stared at the page, still not quite believing her eyes. Just a handful of years after the house was built.
Though the list didn’t specifically say so, Thea presumed these were other women in the county who had been accused or found guilty of witchcraft. She gave an involuntary shiver as her imagination spun any number of wild theories, and she had to take a few deep breaths to calm herself down. Could this be a clue to some of the happenings in the house? To the unease she felt when she was there alone? She looked back at the list and was still pondering this when she heard a discreet cough at her shoulder. ‘Miss Rust?’
‘Yes?’
‘I taught your father, you know,’ the librarian said.
She paused. ‘I didn’t think there were any teachers left from his time.’
‘A couple, actually. We were all so sorry to hear the news – ’ he began, then cleared his throat. ‘He was an excellent student.’
‘It’s nice to hear that,’ said Thea. ‘He spoke so fondly of his days at Oxleigh.’
‘I took the liberty of getting out a couple of the old photographs.’ He held out a large leather volume. ‘From your father’s time.’
Thea saw that he had marked a few of the pages.
‘He was in nearly all the teams – a talented sportsman.’
Thea opened the book to the first marked page and drew in a quick breath as she leaned in. A cricket team, arms folded, arranged in rows, wearing baggy whites and banded V-necked sweaters. A pair of bats crossed at the front. She recognised her father instantly, standing in the back row: the wavy hair, strong chin and curving mouth. Was it Oxleigh College that had given him such rock-solid self-belief? She wished that she’d tried harder to understand him, that she might have just one more day to spend with him.
NINETEEN
February 1769, London
A long fortnight after sending her designs, Mary began to fret. She had expected a reply, some indication from her sponsor by then, and she began to think the worst, that Patrick Hollander had changed his mind and no longer believed her to be a ‘natural genius’ (for it was true, those words had echoed in her head as she worked, helping to keep her spirit strong).
The bitterest month of the year brought flurries of snow and freezing rain; each morning the chamber-pots were iced over, and coal for the fire to keep them warm was hard to come by. Mary began to increasingly despair of the situation. She felt sick at her presumption for having imagined their troubles might soon be eased. She could not bear to speak of it with her sister.
Once, on her way to the market, she caught the flash of a peacock-blue coat, the curl of hair gathered at the nape of a neck. She hastened towards the man but lost sight of him as he disappeared into the market’s throng. She told herself later she had imagined the likeness.
At the end of the month, Mary walked around to the house on Spital Square, climbed the stairs to the attic weaving room to see if Guy Le Maître had perhaps received word. ‘But you have worked with him before, no?’ she asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the clamour of the shuttle and the clack of the loom.
Guy shrugged with Gallic nonchalance. ‘Do not be concerned. There may be a delay in the mails, perhaps.’ He raised his eyes to the sky through the window. ‘The weather …’
It was true; after the snow, heavy rains had washed through the streets for more than a month, torrents that left drowned rats in their wake and formed deep puddles to catch out the unwary. Perhaps it was raining throughout the country, not only in London? Mary tried to believe that was the reason for the delay. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and returned to her home. To wait some more.
On the walk home, her disappointment and frustration turned to anger. How dare Patrick Hollander raise her hopes and then simply disappear? It was as if he had become a ghost: as insubstantial as the m
orning mist, a figment of her imagination. As she walked, hearing the rhythmic clatter of the looms from attic windows in almost all the dwellings in Spitalfields, she cursed the fact that not one loom had her design on it; of the yards of silk that were being woven, none were her patterns and colours.
The next day brought the long-awaited reply.
Mary was finishing her breakfast when there was a loud rap on the door. Moments later her mouth hung open in shock; Patrick Hollander stood before her, exactly as she had remembered him. He wore the ready smile of a man certain of a warm welcome wherever he went.
‘I had imagined you a spectre, for I have heard nothing from you since our meeting of last year,’ she said coolly. ‘Tell me that this is not how you generally conduct your business?’ She fixed him with a steely glare and prepared to launch into her grievances, for she had had many long, cold nights to rehearse them.
He held up a hand to still her. ‘Madam,’ he interrupted, ‘I am most sincerely apologetic. I have been occupied with other matters and unable to get word to you until now. My own poor mother has been taken ill and I have been unable to leave her side for fear of her expiring in my absence.’ He regarded her with a sorrowful expression. ‘I fear I have neglected my business terribly, but I do hope you can forgive my circumstances.’
Some of Mary’s indignation left her. She could hardly argue against a man who had been looking after his mother. ‘I trust she is in better health now?’ she enquired, swallowing the remains of her anger.
‘I confess that we buried her a fortnight past.’ Mary observed the clench of his jaw, and her heart softened towards him.