by Sonia Velton
He took the bundle of material from me and shook out its full length, holding it up against the loom. “Yes,” he said, considering it, “it’s perfect. In any event, it’s a good idea to cover the loom to protect it from the dust and the sunlight.”
I suppressed a smile, not wanting him to know that I was amused by the thought that he unknowingly held aloft my most voluminous petticoat, cut and opened out into a plain cloth.
He made as if to throw the petticoat over the loom, but I stopped him. “Weave just a little,” I said. “Please.”
The light was dwindling, the world fading around us. The assembling darkness was like a wall shielding the garret from the prosaic goings-on outside. Decisions seemed straightforward within those sloping walls.
“I want to see you do it,” my voice pushed against his reluctance, “just for a moment. Just to see it happen.”
He nodded, an almost imperceptible dip of his head.
I lit a candle and placed it on a shelf near the loom. When he sat down, something about the candlelight and the way he settled himself on the weaving bench made me think of a pianist about to play. I almost held my breath with anticipation, as if the boy Mozart was about to bring my pattern to life.
“I cannot do this alone,” he said. “You will have to be my drawboy.”
Of course. Ives. I looked down at the unappealing straw pallet.
He smiled at me. “You need not sit on that. There’s a stool over there.”
I found it in the corner and brought it over to the loom. I was glad I was wearing my most modest gown, so that I could smooth my skirts underneath me before I sat down.
“When I weave,” began Lambert, “I select from the point paper which simples are to have lashes applied to them at every change.” His voice was quietly authoritative. Outside this room, I was the mistress, but in here I did his bidding. “Before we begin we need to set up the lashes and the simples.”
He showed me how to do it, then I passed a lash around every simple he pointed out, knotted the lashes together and connected them to a cord.
“You are the drawboy,” he said finally. “It is your job to sit beside the loom and pull the correct lashes that are laced to simples. These in turn produce the figured design of the cloth as I put through the weft. Do you understand?”
This time I almost did. As I tentatively pulled on a lash I could see that it drew down some of the cords making up the simple. When certain strands of the warp were raised, and the rest lay flat, a space was created through which he could pass the shuttle attached to the weft. I nodded. “I do understand.”
“Just pull, hold, and release them as I direct, that’s all.” He was grinning. I felt at ease with him, not nervous or afraid of doing it wrong, just excited to see even a few threads come together to mark the beginning of Blackberry and Wild Rose.
The loom began to move under his hands, like a huge puppet, as he worked the treadles, calling to me to pull the lashes and draw the simples. As I did so, he threw the shuttle so that it slipped through the warp threads. For some time I was lost in the strange cadence of the contraption. There were moments, when I was just holding the same lash through successive passes of the shuttle, when I could look at him, the concentration knitting his brow and the flex of the muscles in his arms as he worked. I wished I could stop the sink of the sun in the sky.
By the time the candle had burned down to a waxy stump, the thinnest sliver of iridescent silk clung to the heddles. “I can’t believe it,” I breathed. I was finally looking at the very beginning of a silk made to a pattern I had designed. My own creation. “How long will it take to finish it?”
Lambert laughed and rose from the weaving bench. “There is one more thing you need to weave silk, Mrs. Thorel,” he said.
“What’s that?” I sounded exasperated.
He came and stood beside me, looking down at me with a serious expression. “Patience,” he said. He held my gaze for a second, then broke into another wide grin. “In fact, that is the most important part.”
I felt a connection to him then, a familiarity, as we laughed together, that I could not remember ever feeling before. “But really,” I said, “how long does it take? It seems my own hair would grow faster than this.”
“If I worked a full day, I could weave about a yard.”
For the first time it occurred to me that there was a limit to the time he would spend in our house. He worked on his master piece for perhaps two hours each afternoon he came. Even if he only came once a week he could weave a yard of silk in a month. How many yards did it have to be?
Then he would be gone.
17
Sara
I kept a detailed inventory of my mistress’ apparel. I knew every crease in the linens and every curve of her stays. When any item went out to the washerwoman, I noted it in my inventory, along with any stains I expected to be removed and any darning I would do on its return. With the cost, of course. Every ha’penny was accounted for in the Thorel household.
I came to know each of her gowns and when she liked to wear them. She favored the demure blues and pale grays on Sundays, but on a Saturday I would lay out a selection of pale pinks and yellows. They were aired in the summer and stored in lavender and sandalwood when winter came. Madam loved each of them, as if they were household pets.
Why then, when I went through my lady’s wardrobe that morning, were there only three petticoats?
I had gone round her room in my usual fashion, refilling the water jugs and cleaning the glasses that bore the print of her lips. Then I tidied the pots and jars and replaced their lids. All this took place out of her sight, of course. It would not do for her to know how filthy she was. There was powder everywhere. She thought only about what went on her face and in her hair. The rest fell in a cloud around her, unnoticed unless she tutted and brushed it from her sleeve. I opened the windows to let in some air and banged the cushion of her dressing table stool out of the window. The dust and powder caught on the breeze in flurries.
In the street below, the watercress seller sauntered across the cobblestones with her basket and her bosom overflowing, whistling to the boys. She caught the eye of the brick-dust seller, who stared at her as he passed. For a moment I looked at his mule, plodding along behind him laden with sacks. Of late, I had felt as tired and burdened as that animal. I left the window open to air the room and drew the bed curtains. Inside it was fusty with sleep and turned my stomach. The pillows on both sides were dented and rumpled, which could mean only one thing. I threw back the coverlet and clicked my tongue. More sheets to change, more laundry for the washerwoman.
And that was what reminded me. There was a petticoat in the linen cupboard with a hem that needed mending. Except that when I looked, there wasn’t.
How a lady and her petticoat could come to be parted, I didn’t know.
* * *
I remember the night before my mother had told me to go. She came up to the attic that we shared. Her face was flushed and her usually neat hair was falling out from underneath her cap. Tears had made tracks down her face, cutting through the coal dust left on her skin from where she had tried to brush them away with hands that had stoked the kitchen fires. When I reached for her, she pushed me away and did not allow me to comfort her. That night we lay in our little bed like two strangers, rather than with me curled against her, listening to her breathing as I fell asleep.
It was not until the next morning that she gave me the parcel and pressed the purse into my hand, but it was that night that she truly left me. I did not know what I had done wrong. Even when she told me that there was no place for me in the household and I would have to go to London to make my own way, it was as if the master were telling me, not my own mother. She clipped out the words as if they held no real significance, even as my little world—me and her as long as I could remember—was ripped apart. I asked her why she
was doing this all the way down to the Old London Road, but all she would say was that I would have a better life in London, she was certain of it. I just had to trust her and ask no more questions.
We stood in silence by the side of the road and waited for the cart to appear as it came through the woods at the edge of our master’s land. I sensed her stiffen at the sight of it as if she sought strength from her rigid limbs. I remember my distress as the horses slowed their heavy tread and she pushed me up into the cart. I tried to cling to her, but the driver whipped up the horses, and she slipped through my hands as the cart jolted forward.
Over the years I had tried not to think of her. I allowed the wound to close, rather than worry and pick at it with memories. The only times I had thought of her were when I opened her book and started to make the recipes inside. When I smelled the fragrance of cakes swelling in the oven, memories of her flooded through me, like my own blood. And I thought of her now, when I had seen the moon wax and wane three times since the summer began and no blood had stained my shift.
Widow Anstis lived in a little wood-and-pitch house in the fields of Whitechapel. If she had had a fancy shop and measured out her potions into fine cobalt glass, she would have been called an apothecary. As it was, she was called far worse, but it was not the Middle Ages and a woman could be left to her herbs in relative peace. She made the best pomades this side of Tottenham Court—that was why all the Spitalfields ladies went to her—but her wisdom went far beyond vanity, for those who cared to know. And Mrs. Swann did want to know. She would take her girls to Mrs. Anstis by the cartload, forcing potions down our necks every month that tasted of borage and dandelion leaves.
Mrs. Anstis explained that humors ebb and flow inside us, like tides. Women live in thrall to the moon, and the right draught at the right time can change the balance of our humors. We walked through her herb garden many times. In the summer, the scent of rosemary rose from the ground as our skirts brushed over the woody stems. Every so often she would bend to pick chamomile and put it in her poultice bag. When the draught was ready, she would line us up, like children at the poorhouse, and spoon out a dose to us all. I drank mine quickly, trying not to flinch at its bitter taste, then took the peppermint leaves she held out to me.
I had not seen her since I left Mrs. Swann’s. Was this the result? A wretched creature inside me that no amount of stewed leaves could ever get out?
* * *
Every Sunday morning after church we were allowed some free time, so I asked John Barnstaple to meet me in the tea gardens at Vauxhall. There was a large white pavilion in the center, which was covered with climbing roses in the summer, but that day it was October and the flowers had already turned to orange hips and the leaves were falling. There was hardly anyone else about. It was cold and a fine, misty rain dampened my face.
I was annoyed to see him approaching the pavilion with another man. We had so little time together that I didn’t want to share him with anyone else. Besides, I had something important to tell him.
They were deep in conversation and merely nodded at me as they sat down on the bench that curved round the inside of the pavilion. Now that he was closer I recognized the man from Buttermilk Alley. It was Roger Duff.
“We need to do more,” said Duff. “Sixpence per loom is nothing.”
“The problem,” replied Barnstaple, “is the demand for cheap imported cotton. We need to persuade people not to buy it and not to wear it.”
“But it is already banned,” I said. I didn’t want to state the obvious, but I found being ignored a little tedious. They looked at me as if one of the ornamental urns decorating the pavilion had spoken.
“Banned it may be,” said Barnstaple, “but there are still plenty of shops selling Indian calico.”
Duff leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Other combinations are taking more of a stand,” he said. “Someone told me that a woman had the calico dress ripped from her back by a couple of weavers from a combination called the Rebellion Sloop.” His voice was urgent, as if he secretly enjoyed the image his words created, but Barnstaple’s face clouded.
“The Conquering and Bold Defiance does not assault defenseless women in the street,” he said gravely.
“Then what would you have us do? Go with Bisby Lambert to lobby Parliament?” There was a mocking edge to Duff’s voice, and I glanced warily at Barnstaple. His mood was like a tossed farthing: it could land either way.
Then he guffawed and even Duff looked relieved. “We are not yet reduced to that,” he said, clapping Duff on the back.
When Duff had left, Barnstaple bought us each a cup of sweet tea and we sat warming our hands on them at a table in the tea gardens.
“What times we live in,” I ventured, blowing at the tea so that the steam clouded in the cold air. “I admire you. Your children will be born into a better place because of what you are doing.”
“I would not want to bring a child into this world,” he said, staring around him, as if the gray skies and the cold metal chairs of the tea gardens were the best the world had to offer.
“But you would have much to teach a son. You could show him how to stand up for himself, how to demand proper wages for his work.”
“At this rate there will be no work left for any son of mine.”
“But what of Ives?” I persisted. “You are like a father to him—more than his own uncle, even. Does he not make you wish for a son of your own?”
Barnstaple set down his tea with a clatter. “What is the point of all this?” he asked. “I do not wish for a son any more than I wish for a millstone around my neck. Have you understood nothing? I cannot make enough of a living for myself, let alone a child.”
I nodded mutely and stared down at the tiny ripples the breeze made on the surface of my tea. I would not get the answer I wanted from him any more than I would find it in the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup.
Esther
If Sunday mornings were about duty and obligation, Sunday afternoons were about freedom. I often had the house to myself. Once we had attended church and had lunch, the servants were free to do as they pleased. That Sunday, Sara had gone for a walk in the tea gardens at Vauxhall and Elias had taken his horse out to ride in the fields beyond Hare Street. I tried to sit with my sewing, but the knowledge that a loom upstairs was mounted with thread for my own pattern was like a siren call and I could not resist going up there.
I sat in front of the loom. My palms felt sticky as I fiddled with the shuttle, trying to summon the courage to begin. How hard could it be? I had everything set up and Bisby Lambert had already shown me what to do. I knew I should have a drawboy, but surely I could do a little bit on my own. Just until the first pattern change, even if I had to keep getting up and lifting the lashes myself. It would take longer, but it would not be impossible.
I couldn’t remember exactly which treadle to press, but I felt sure it would all fall into place as soon as I could start. I pulled on the heddles and tried to pass the shuttle, but it flew out of my hand and tangled limply in the warp. I tutted and untangled it, trying to throw it again. When it seemed to work, I grabbed at a pulley and yanked it. The loom seemed to awaken like a sleeping beast and parts I didn’t even know could move started sliding and grating together. I felt out of control, immediately regretting that I had ever thought I could weave the silk myself. It was as if I had begun to push a boulder down a hill, and now that it had gained momentum, I couldn’t stop it rolling. I reached out with my foot for a treadle, pressing it repeatedly, trying to still the determined loom. Then I felt a tugging at the hem of my skirts, gradually increasing in pressure until I realized that my gown had become caught in the moving parts. I let go of everything I was touching as if the loom were on fire.
* * *
There was a strange quiet in the attic. It was midafternoon and the house was empty. I sat at the bench, tethered to
the loom, inseparable now from the instrument I had sought to control. The linnets trilled and chirped in their cage, as if discussing my predicament. I tugged at my skirt, but it was so caught in the mechanism that there was no give at all.
“Sara!” My voice dropped to the floor of the garret like a spent firework.
She was not back yet. In truth, I didn’t want her to come. How would I begin to explain? A pair of scissors lay on the shelves among the spools of silk. Only three yards away, but it might as well have been a mile as I could not so much as stand up. I cried out in fury and frustration and started banging on the loom, as if it were a dog that held me in its jaws. The linnets took flight in surprise and fluttered against the bars of their cage, as futile in their endeavors as I was in mine.
When the garret trapdoor lifted I was bent double, trying again to twist my skirts free. I wasn’t even aware of him until he was standing next to me. I let go of my skirts and sat up. Bisby Lambert didn’t look at me, just silently crouched to inspect the awkward union of my dress and the loom. The material had snarled in the mechanism and two parts were wedged together. He leaned across me and pulled at it. For a moment, his side—from his shoulder to his waist—was pressed against my legs. Even through my petticoats I could feel the muscles of his back flex as he worked. I looked away to lessen my embarrassment, staring at the linnets jostling on their perch, quietly watchful.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, trying not to glance down.
“I need to work on Sundays, ma’am. I have not made as much progress on my master piece as I had hoped.”
I was glad, in that moment at least, that he was bent down among my skirts. I did not want to look at him, knowing that I was likely the reason he had achieved so little.