The Silk House : A Novel (2020)

by Nunn, Kayte

  ‘My sincere condolences to you, Mr Hollander.’

  ‘She went peacefully at the end.’ He looked about the street, as if someone might be eavesdropping. ‘Perhaps we might continue our discussion indoors? As I have said before, Miss Stephenson, I am very much enamoured of your designs, and I only hope that you will agree to work for me despite the unforeseen hold-up.’

  Mary regarded him carefully. Was she right to believe him?

  On Frances’s return later that day, Mary held out a note. ‘Go on, read it,’ she said.

  ‘Two patterns of meadow flowers received and approved. I hereby authorise Mary-Louise Stephenson to instruct Mr Guy Le Maître in the weaving of fifty ells of each. Faithfully yours, Patrick Hollander.’

  ‘I was wrong to doubt him,’ Mary cried with relief. ‘For he called upon me this very morning.’

  Frances raised her eyebrows but said nothing as Mary explained the reason for Mr Hollander’s absence. She frowned at the letter. ‘Why has he not commissioned Mr Le Maître himself?’

  ‘He was to take the stage to Oxleigh not moments after our meeting. He has been most caught up in resurrecting his business, and did not have time for that visit.’

  ‘It is but a ten-minute walk away.’

  Mary sighed. ‘I shall take them now.’ Gathering the original patterns she had kept, she walked to the weaver’s loft, full of excitement. But Guy frowned at her even as she showed him the letter. ‘I have a family to feed, apprentices to pay. How do you propose I do that if I am working without coin myself?’

  ‘Surely Mr Hollander will see to that?’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed Guy. ‘He has not paid his last account, nor the one before that. I cannot continue to work for him until he settles upon me the money he owes. I must have the money first. And that which I am owed.’ Guy was immovable.

  ‘How much?’

  When he named the sum, all of Mary’s hopes dissolved.

  She could hardly bear to report on the delay to her sister. ‘It is so unbearably frustrating,’ she raged. ‘Why, only last spring a pattern of snowdrops and curling ivy was chosen by the Duchess of Portland. I am certain that this fabric will be desired by such grand ladies and gentlemen.’

  Her sister regarded her sadly, then became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Connor O’Neill.’

  Mary had never heard the name.

  ‘He is a journeyman that Samuel once knew. He was suspected of being a cutter.’

  ‘A cutter?’

  ‘A few years ago, before you came to live here, a group of journeymen cut the silk from their master weavers’ looms, destroying weeks of work. To protest about unfair wages. In one night alone they cut the silk from fifty looms. The air rang with the sound of pistol shots and we were forced to barricade ourselves inside the house. I feared for our lives. If what I hear is true, it is likely that such a thing may happen again.’

  Mary stared in disbelief. ‘So, what happened to Connor O’Neill?’

  ‘He disappeared.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how that will help us, then,’ she sighed. Her sister was talking in riddles. ‘In any case, how can we expect a weaver to work for free?’ Mary asked. That was the stumbling block – they had no spare money to fund such an enterprise themselves.

  ‘If we can locate him, I believe he will undertake the work for a better than fair price.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘After the company blacklisted him, he struggled to find work. But Samuel believed him to be falsely accused and took pity on him, passed him work from time to time, enough to save him and his wife from the poorhouse and their children from an orphanage.’

  ‘That still doesn’t change the fact that we have almost no coin, and certainly none to spare for silk,’ Mary protested.

  ‘Oh, but you are mistaken, sister,’ Frances said with a secretive smile. ‘For I have the money needed to weave about twenty yards of silk at a price that I believe Mr O’Neill will agree to.’

  ‘What? How?’

  Frances hesitated. ‘Mother’s necklace.’

  ‘No!’ Mary was shocked at the suggestion. ‘You cannot sell that.’

  ‘Too late. I have already done so.’ Frances held up a handful of paper notes. ‘The pawnbroker was glad of it.’

  Mary gasped. ‘But how did you know that Mr Le Maître had not been paid?’

  ‘I confess, that I was unaware of. I had already arranged the sale. How do you think we have survived these past months? He already has my watch and wedding ring.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mary glancing at her sister’s hand and noticing for the first time that it was bare. ‘Why did you not tell me of this sooner?’

  ‘Would it have made any difference? Do not worry yourself over it. If all goes well, we will be able to buy them back before long.’

  ‘Then we must proceed apace.’ Mary was decisive. ‘Where do we find this Mr O’Neill?’

  ‘I shall have to make discreet enquiries. Leave it with me.’

  There was a fingernail of moon still high in the sky, a handful of fading stars gathered around it, when Mary and Frances ventured out before dawn the next morning. Their route took them past the Brick Lane market, north along the newly paved thoroughfare until its confluence with Great Bacon Street. From there, Mary followed her sister along a series of narrow lanes until they reached the back of a huddle of squat brick houses. The way was slippery with clay and the area appeared all but abandoned, desolate in the grey of the early morning.

  ‘I believe this is the one,’ said Frances, lifting her skirts clear of the mud and stepping over the rough ground towards the furthest building.

  Mary followed close behind, wincing as her boots sank deep in the clay and glancing about her to be sure no one was approaching. This was not an area to which she had ventured before and the quietness after the clack and clatter of Spitalfields was unnerving. ‘I hope you are right,’ she said, spotting two urchins sitting on a brick wall at the end of one of the houses. Their feet were bare and black with filth, their hair did not look like it ever came within arm’s reach of a comb and their clothes were the indeterminate grey of unwashed cloth. As Mary and Frances approached, they hopped off the wall and disappeared into the house, shutting the back door with a bang.

  Mary startled at the sound, nearly dropping her bag containing the sketches and patterns. As she fumbled with her belongings, the door opened again and from somewhere inside the house came the sweet chirrup of a bird. A linnet, she fancied. Several of the weavers kept them in cages in their attics, but she rarely heard their song over the noise of the looms in Spital Square and thereabouts. Here, it was quieter, for there was not the rhythmic clack of a single shuttle.

  ‘Who’s there?’ A woman’s voice called from beyond the door.

  ‘It’s Frances Wycroft. Samuel’s widow. I’m here with my sister, Mary Stephenson.’

  There was a pause, then the woman spoke again, quietly this time and Mary had to strain to hear her words. ‘Best you come in, then, and stop drawing attention to yourselves. Be quick about it.’

  They hastened towards the door, entering the house and finding themselves in a narrow passage that brought them into a small, dim kitchen. There were old rushes on the floor, grey with dried mud, and the hearth smouldered. A smell of boiled cabbage filled the room. The woman seemed old, with sunken cheeks and thinning hair, but she had a baby slung against one hip, a toddler hanging from her skirts. The older children sat in the corner of the room, watching them with wide eyes. ‘We were hopeful of speaking with Mr O’Neill,’ Frances said.

  The woman sneered. ‘You’re sore out of luck, for he’s not seen fit to show his face here for months. He’s a wanted man, didn’t you know?’ She laughed mirthlessly, picking up a clout from the table and wiping a thick river of snot from the infant’s nose.

  ‘And I take it you have no idea as to his whereabouts?’ Mary asked, her spirits sinking. It appeared as
though this was to be a hopeless errand.

  The woman looked at her like she was the village idiot, and Mary shifted uncomfortably. ‘Of course not,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry for your …’ her voice trailed off. She did not know what to say in such circumstances. ‘We were hoping to offer him a commission.’

  ‘Aye?’ Her voice became more accommodating. ‘Well, he’s not the only weaver in the house.’

  It took a moment before Mary cottoned on to her meaning. ‘Oh, I see. Of course, Mrs O’Neill.’ Several of the journeymen weavers taught their wives to weave, mostly the simpler designs, and often set up two or three looms in their attics, for the older children could also be pressed into service when need be.

  ‘Why’ve you come here? Why not go to one of the journeymen in Spital Square?’

  ‘We find ourselves in a bind,’ Mary admitted, before explaining the situation.

  The woman nodded. ‘Call me Bridget. Well, then …’ She handed the baby to one of the older children and cleared a space on the table. ‘Let me see the pattern.’

  Mary pulled out the papers from her bag and laid them flat, standing back so Bridget could see them.

  She pursed her lips, peered more closely, muttered something to herself and then addressed Mary, who was watching her anxiously. ‘Can’t exactly say I’ve seen anything like this before. Seems like a garden of death,’ she said, pointing to the pattern. Bridget’s breath whistled as she sucked it in through the gaps in her teeth.

  ‘Belladonna,’ Mary replied, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘So it is,’ said the woman as she returned to her study of the dot paper. Mary waited for her to point out a novice’s mistake, an error in the design, for though she had gone over it several times, she feared she might have missed something obvious to a more trained eye.

  ‘This pattern is of your devising?’ Bridget asked, her gaze narrowing.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mary. ‘But it was commissioned by a mercer. Patrick Hollander of Oxleigh. I shall be sending the cloth to him when it is completed.’

  The woman startled as she heard the name.

  ‘Perhaps you know of him?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I do believe my husband mentioned his name once or twice,’ Bridget replied quickly. ‘No more than that.’

  Mary glanced at her sister. Did she too imagine Bridget O’Neill knew more than she was letting on?

  ‘It is rather unusual for the pattern-drawer to come directly to the weaver, is it not?’ Bridget asked, interrupting her thoughts, but the baby began to grizzle and Mary was saved from an explanation. Bridget took the infant from her daughter, rocking and shushing the child but never taking her eyes from the paper. Eventually she returned her gaze to the two women. ‘It can be done,’ she said. ‘And as luck would have it – ’ She broke off with a laugh that turned into a hacking cough. ‘I can get to it right away. Thomas here is as good a draw boy as you’ll find.’

  The taller of the two boys nodded solemnly.

  Mary couldn’t believe the words she was hearing. Someone was actually going to weave cloth from her design. The thought almost overwhelmed her. She ignored the fact that it was in such ignominious, and far from clean, surroundings, for it wasn’t as if she had any other options. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ she said. ‘Here – ’ She held out a sheet of paper. ‘I made some notes – to help with the weaving of it.’

  Bridget took the paper and squinted at it. After a while she raised her face to meet the two women’s gazes and said, ‘’Tis I who should be thanking you. From the look of this design, the mercer will get what he deserves.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Oh, I think Mistress Stephenson knows what I mean,’ said Bridget, with a sly grin. ‘Now we have only to agree on a price.’

  ‘There’s another, too,’ said Mary, handing her the second pattern.

  ‘What was that about?’ Frances asked once she and Mary left the house. ‘That Mr Hollander will get what he deserves?’

  ‘I have no idea. But if she is as talented a weaver as you say her husband was, then I must be grateful for that.’

  TWENTY

  March 1769, Oxleigh

  The anticipated return of Caroline Hollander caused a flurry of activity that roused the house from its wintry slumber. Delivery boys deposited their wares, and Prudence prepared all manner of food. When Tommy came with a haunch of venison, a buttock of beef and a ham, he flushed and then grinned as he caught sight of Rowan. They’d taken to meeting by the river in the afternoons after Tommy finished at the butcher’s, Tommy fishing while Rowan gathered herbs, and she had come to look forward to their hours together, urging the clock to advance so that they might meet again. This time, however, there was no time for an exchange of words, and he slipped away down the back lane before Rowan could think of a reason to delay him.

  She lit fires in the downstairs rooms and aired the upstairs ones, opening the shutters wide and raising the window sashes. Much of the house had been unused for nearly a month and a creeping damp had invaded the rooms. Even though the bedding had been seen to weeks before, she aired the counterpanes and beat and fluffed the goose-down quilts until they lay lightly on the beds once more.

  Prudence set about boiling the beef, preparing sweetmeats and pies. She was standing at the kitchen table, her forearms covered in flour, when Rowan appeared. A conical loaf of sugar sparkled in the light that shone through the window, a bowl of damsons like dark jewels beside it.

  ‘I don’t wish to get in your way, but perhaps I might complete a dra— ointment?’ Rowan asked, catching herself in time. ‘I only need a small space.’

  ‘You’d best get on with it in the scullery,’ Prudence replied, pounding the pastry into submission. ‘For there is no room here.’ The normally agreeable cook was short with her, all her attention on the piecrust.

  ‘Of course. I shan’t trouble you any further.’ Rowan slipped out of the room.

  She began by sluicing her hands and face with cold water, for they had become blackened with smuts from the fire as she fanned the flames. Then she cleared a space on the wide scullery counter that overlooked the garden, and thought back to the day her mother had instructed her in the mixing of this particular draught. It was important that it was made as close to the drinking of it as possible. There weren’t many married women in the village who had need of such things, but she remembered the day the lady of the manor’s maid came to call. Rowan also hadn’t forgotten how handsomely her mother was paid for her efforts, but try as she might, she could not recall whether or not the draught had had the intended effect.

  As her mother had done, she had already soaked the nettles, red clover buds and dandelion root in vinegar over several nights, and now she gathered a scrap of muslin through which to strain the liquid into a glass bottle. To this she added the other herbs and powders from the apothecary in careful amounts, before pressing a stopper upon the bottle to seal it. She thought to taste it herself, but a shout from the kitchen put paid to that and she placed the bottle carefully out of harm’s way on the windowsill. She was about to leave the scullery when Alice pushed her way inside.

  ‘Don’t think that I don’t know what you are about,’ she said.

  ‘Begging your pardon?’

  ‘That’s no chilblain ointment. I wonder what the master might have to say about such a thing?’ Alice crossed her arms and regarded her suspiciously. ‘You well know his thoughts about witchery and the like.’

  Rowan had had enough. She refused to be cowed any longer. ‘Witchery, you say?’ she stepped towards Alice, filling the narrow space. ‘I wonder what the mistress might say if she were to find out about your … your closeness to the master? She already has her doubts. Perhaps you might be the one accused of bewitchment?’

  Alice’s eyes widened and Rowan took advantage of her hesitation, reaching for the bottle then concealing it among her skirts as she slipped past her and along the passage to the kitchen. Her heart still pou
nded at the unexpected confrontation, and she drew a few deep breaths to calm herself.

  ‘The mistress is returned,’ said Prudence, pausing as she rolled out the pastry, ‘and asking for you. Can you take her this? Alice is seeing to the unloading of her luggage.’ She indicated the table, where a teapot and china cup and saucer had been assembled on an oval tray. ‘Is anything amiss?’ Prudence glanced at her.

  ‘No, no, everything is perfectly fine,’ Rowan assured her as she smoothed her apron and tucked a stray strand of hair under her cap, her heart returning to its regular, steady beat.

  When she entered the room, her mistress was seated on the chaise in front of the fire. Rowan went towards her and placed the tray on a table beside her.

  ‘I trust your stay was an enjoyable one, mistress?’ she ventured.

  ‘Thank you, Rowan, it was. You have the draught?’ Caroline asked, showing what had clearly been uppermost in her mind during her absence.

  Rowan was relieved to give her the answer she desired. ‘Aye, mistress.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘You will need to take but a small spoonful twice a day. No more than that,’ Rowan warned, handing her the bottle. ‘And continue to do so until the bottle is empty.’

  ‘Don’t forget a spoon, then.’

  Rowan turned to leave. ‘I will make certain of it.’

  As Caroline turned to face her, there was a familiar bleakness to her expression. ‘Let us hope it works.’

  A week later, with a loud ‘Whoa!’, the clop of hooves and jangle of brass, a coach and six drew up outside the house. Alerted by Prudence, Rowan hurried to the door to let in her master, holding it wide and standing back as he brushed past her and went straight to the shop.

  She was oft treated by those she served as if she were invisible, for servants, she had learned, must contrive to be where their betters are not, until the point of being called upon. Then they were required to appear as if by magic, undertaking their master’s or mistress’s bidding without delay. Nevertheless, she was surprised not to receive even a greeting upon his return after so long away. Even Alice, who had hastened to the front door with Rowan, got little acknowledgment beyond a fleeting smile. Rowan saw the other maid’s face fall as she turned away, retreating to the shadows at the back of the house.