Blackberry and Wild Rose

by Sonia Velton

  She breakfasted from a tray in her room, then left to her sewing in the parlor. Once she had gone, I opened the locket. The inside of the top half was inlaid with a tiny scene of trees and flowers. The other side was mother-of-pearl and resting on it was a tiny gold key.

  I went quickly to her dressing table drawer, wondering what I would find there. Letters and love notes, I felt sure. When I came to think on it, Madam had been taking “rests” in the afternoon of late, disappearing into her room with a headache or other malady and telling me she must not be disturbed. But how could I just leave her? What maid would not bring her mistress something to fortify her? I had stopped on the stairs once and turned to go back to ask her if I could bring her a piece of fruit or some soup, but I had seen only the sweep of her skirts as she disappeared up into the garret, drawn to that strange sound.

  The drawer unlocked with a satisfying click and I pulled it open. There were certainly papers inside, but they were plain and neatly folded on top of a leather-bound book. I took out the top one and unfolded it. The paper was covered lengthwise and vertically with faint lines, and drawn over them were flowers. And every paper the same! Just drawing after drawing of plants and flowers in snakelike patterns across the lines. I almost ripped one up in disgust. Why was this worth locking away? Even the ledger contained nothing but lists of flowers, Blackberry and Wild Rose, Holly and Cherry Blossom. Was this the extent of her secret life? A few jottings on fancy paper?

  Esther

  “Husband?” I raised my voice as I tried to attract his attention. Elias was sitting across the table from Mr. Arnaud and they were in animated discussion. I will not say that they were arguing as I was so desperate for them not to be, on this day of all days. We had prepared for Twelfth Night for weeks and I wanted everyone to enjoy the festivities.

  I waved Sara away with her jug of wine. Plainly Elias did not want his glass filled, if he did not care to acknowledge either me or her.

  “The problem,” he said, “is that some mercers are not above buying foreign silks imported by the East India Company. Do you know of anyone who would do that?”

  Arnaud shifted in his chair. His girth had increased considerably of late and the heavy meal had done him no favors. “Of course not,” he said levelly. “But it is not just the Chinese silks, or even the French ones. What about the Indian calicoes? They fill the hulls of the East India ships. Just pay the subscription and be done with it.”

  Elias set his jaw. “It’s protection money and no more. I will not pay.”

  “Why not consider it a tax?”

  “A tax? Of sixpence per loom? I own more than fifty!”

  Arnaud shrugged. “You have reduced the piece rate, have you not? You can see why the weavers protest.”

  Elias’ face flushed with indignation. “I have reduced the piece rate because the price that the mercers will pay for the silk has dropped.” Elias gestured toward Arnaud with his glass still in his hand and wine slopped over the rim. “You care only for buying silk at the cheapest price, but we master weavers are trying to preserve the artistry of our craft. It cannot be rushed or cheapened.” Sara grimaced and eyed the stain spreading through the damask tablecloth from where she still stood, jug in hand.

  Arnaud clicked his tongue. “If you do not pay, you must be prepared for the consequences. These are not educated men. They think with their fists and I, for one, would not wish to pit myself against a mob for the sake of a few pounds.”

  How little he knew Elias. My husband would pit himself against the King for the sake of a ha’penny if he felt a principle were at stake.

  There was no need for me and Mrs. Arnaud to sit watching our husbands turn Twelfth Night into a cock fight, so I led her up to the parlor. I sent Sara to bring us some hot water while I got out the tea caddy and unlocked it. When Sara returned, I saw Mrs. Arnaud watching her as she arranged the cups and set out lemon cakes. Once she had gone, Mrs. Arnaud turned to me and said, “How is your friend with the maid?”

  I blushed. “But you know it is I.”

  “I had some idea,” she replied, glancing toward the door as if the space Sara had just left had offered up my little secret. “Have you thought what you will do?”

  I poured the hot water over the tea I had added to the pot and watched the leaves spin in the little currents while the water darkened. “I would like you to help me, if you would, Mrs. Arnaud. If we could place the child in the Foundling Hospital, it would be best … for everyone.”

  “It’s not easy,” said Mrs. Arnaud, cautiously. “Girls in your maid’s situation seem to be two-a-penny nowadays, unfortunately.”

  “But you said you know someone on the committee?”

  “I do. Perhaps I should make the petition on your maid’s behalf.”

  “Could you, Mrs. Arnaud?”

  She nodded kindly and I poured her some tea. “What must we do?”

  “Well,” she said, dropping sugar into her cup, “we have to show the present necessity of the mother—that is, that the father has deserted her. Then, if the committee feels that taking the child will restore the mother in virtue, and an honest livelihood, they will accept it. Are you willing to guarantee she will still have a job after arrangements have been made for the baby?”

  I thought for a moment. Sara was not the easiest of lady’s maids but, despite our squabbles, I had grown used to her, even fond of her, like a shoe that had given me blisters but was now comfortable.

  “I would, Mrs. Arnaud,” I said, meaning it.

  “Then her chances are good, and there will be the minimum of disruption for you. It is so hard to find good maids, isn’t it?”

  I agreed and offered her a cake. She bit into one and pronounced them very good indeed. “So,” she said, finishing her mouthful, “provided your maid is of previous good character, it should be straightforward.”

  A piece of lemon cake stuck in the back of my throat. I coughed and patted at my chest until Mrs. Arnaud looked quite concerned.

  “Previous good character?” I ventured.

  Mrs. Arnaud chuckled. “Nothing for you to worry about, surely. Just that the girl is basically moral and decent. The committee needs to know that this was a temporary fall from grace. They do not help lewd women, Mrs. Thorel.”

  “What happens to the lewd women?”

  Mrs. Arnaud looked grim. “They are not so fortunate.”

  24

  Sara

  While Madam whispered with Mrs. Arnaud—heads bent together as if I would not notice their hushed chatter—Mr. Arnaud did not care to keep his voice down. He belched out his opinions while the master eyed him silently, an icy breeze to Mr. Arnaud’s blustery gale. But Mr. Arnaud seemed not to notice me. Clearly it had never occurred to him that our paths might have crossed in another setting altogether. Complete disregard: that is both the best and the worst part of servitude.

  Once the ladies had rejoined the men, Madam asked me to bring in the Twelfth cake. Monsieur Finet had to carry it and even he struggled with its weight. Moll followed him, eyes cast down as was her habit, playing the modest serving girl, as if she were unused to being in such company and did not know where to look. I had endured this tawdry pantomime at Mrs. Swann’s. I already knew how to fix a smile on my face as if I were grateful for the opportunity to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mr. and Mrs. Thorel, as equals for this one night.

  Still, the cake made a magnificent centerpiece for the table, which was its purpose after all. I held my breath as Madam broke apart one of the sugar crowns on top and sliced through the filigree icing. She handed us all a slice and we forked it into our mouths, pretending that we were all quite comfortable to be eating together like this. As I ate, I noted each of the flavors I had suggested Monsieur Finet put in, the candied lemon and sultanas, laced with cinnamon, mace, and nutmeg. If nothing else went right this year, at least the cake was good.

&
nbsp; “Ha!” said Mr. Arnaud, spitting his mouthful of cake back onto his plate and poking at it with his fat finger. “There it is!” He held up a small bean while Madam put down her plate to smile and clap politely. “Well done, Mr. Arnaud. You are the King of Misrule. Now, who shall be your Queen?” She looked round at us all, chewing like cows on our cake. Monsieur Finet and I had pushed the dried bean and the pea into the baked cake before we decorated it, just beneath one of the crowns, so that Madam knew exactly where to cut: then her guests would be sure of finding at least one of them in their slices. Otherwise—such was the huge quantity of cake we had to get through—it could well be March before it turned up.

  And there it was, the pea sitting half visible in the rest of my cake. “It’s me!” I cried, with slight enthusiasm. Madam was delighted. I knew she would love it if one of the servants was the King or Queen of Misrule. It gave her a chance to show off how little she really cared for class. We are all equal before God, after all.

  Madam began to deal out the character cards facedown on the table. As if we needed cards to tell us who was Mrs. Prittle-Prattle. Madam mistook my quiet smirk for genuine enjoyment and beamed happily at me. While everyone busied themselves drawing cards and laughing at the prospect of being Toby Tipple for the night, she draped an arm across my shoulders and drew me to one side. She leaned her flushed face toward me and spoke, soft and urgent. “I just want to help you,” she said. I could smell the wine on her breath and I wondered whether the arm still resting on me was for my benefit or hers.

  “Come,” she went on brightly, “you are the Queen of Misrule tonight. We shall all do your bidding. Tell me what you would like to do.”

  She was like a child, waiting for me to tell her what game we should play next. Over by the table even the master managed a smile when Mr. Arnaud drew Justice Double-Fee as his card. I dipped my shoulder, freeing myself from her touch. “I should like to keep my baby,” I said in a harsh whisper.

  Madam’s face pinched. She glanced at Mrs. Arnaud with a little look of consternation that confirmed everything for me. While the master was selling silk, Madam had been busy peddling babies. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but before she could say anything I walked back to the table and clapped my hands.

  “Why, Mrs. Thorel has yet to draw her card,” I announced, indicating that she should take one of the few that were left. She glanced at the card she had chosen and pulled a tight smile, as if the night’s merrymaking was already wearing thin.

  I plucked the card from her fingers. “Ah, Mrs. Duplicity!” I said, suddenly finding I was enjoying myself. “So, madam, you must not tell the truth for the whole night. More than that, whenever anyone asks you anything you must spin them a tall tale, the most elaborate you can think of. Everyone, when Mrs. Thorel speaks, not one of us shall be able to trust a word she says!” I clasped my hands together and looked at her as if I found the very idea hilarious. Her mouth smiled back at me, but her eyes gave me a stony glare.

  Esther

  I had tried to keep separate my life in the garret, as if the sloping walls were enough to contain what was going on there. But it was seeping out into the rest of the house. Sara knew, I was sure of it. I had the sense of a book closing, time running out. The silk would not end this. Sara would do it instead.

  It is painful to think that there will be a last time, even if that time marks a new beginning, an altered existence, our lives shifting from one form to another.

  I had to see him. I needed to see the silk we had almost finished, not snatches of it hidden in folds as if it were something shameful, but stretched out to its full length. Touching it, knowing that it existed, proved somehow that what we had was real.

  Bisby Lambert unwound the silk slowly, stepping backward until the other end pulled taut from the heddles, still owned by the loom. It hung in the air like a frozen stream, gently lambent in the half-light as if it were as sentient as the man who held it. The intense plum and the creamy yellow had been formed into perfect little images that traversed the width of the silk, over and over in a relentless repeat as if they were leading somewhere, until they ended abruptly at the naked warp. Cut off at their most exquisite.

  “It’s more beautiful than I could have hoped it would be,” I said. The wind spat freezing rain against the windows, real life, brutal and unpleasant, hammering at our door. “Thank you.”

  “You made this happen, not me,” he said. “You designed the house. What did I do but lay one brick upon another?”

  “No, you are the talented one. Extraordinarily talented. Even my husband says that about you. You will be a master one day, I know it.”

  He began to roll the silk. “Do you really think that?” His voice was flat. The dusk had extinguished the blue from his eyes making him look unfamiliar. Even the silk was drained of its color as night fell. It was as if, here in the garret, we were just impressions of ourselves.

  “You know I do. If that’s what you really want.”

  “I’ll never be able to have what I really want.” His voice had a strange, cracked quality.

  “Why not? You are a better weaver than—”

  “I am not talking about weaving.”

  There it was: finally spoken. A candle lit, a door opened.

  He came toward me then, leaving our silk behind him, stepping beyond what had brought us together. He left a space between us, a gap for me to bridge. I don’t remember moving. Instead, the world shrank, everything in our lives concentrated into that one moment.

  I cannot stop.

  Our foreheads touching, his skin damp, despite the sleet driving against the window.

  If you want this to end, you will have to be the one to end it.

  His mouth alongside mine. The almost-taste of him, his sweat a salt-promise as I dragged my lips across his skin.

  Then the cruel rasp of his breath as he pulled away, reason and sense dragged into his lungs and pumped though him. Our bodies shifting like lodestones, poles repelling.

  * * *

  The shame shocked me. Certainly his rejection, but more how much I had wanted him. How completely I had been prepared to set aside everything just for that one moment with him. It didn’t matter that he pulled away. In that instant of connection, I had been reminded of what it was to love. Or perhaps I had never truly known.

  25

  Sara

  I had not set foot in a tavern since I had left the Wig and Feathers, but one night in February I found myself approaching the Eight Bells alehouse in Spitalfields. It was unnaturally quiet for a tavern, being past the time that even the most sociable of drinkers might be found sitting at a table with a pot of ale in hand. John Barnstaple had told to me to come down to the cellar, and as I walked down the outside steps, I had a fancy that Nathanial would be waiting below and I would hear the clip-clip of Mrs. Swann’s heels on the flagstones as she came to see who it was. Her eyes would saucer when she saw me: There you are, you wretched, wretched girl! Call for the constable, Nathanial, and be quick about it!

  It was pitch black—as if no one had given a thought to setting a taper to a candle—but I could sense someone standing sentinel outside the door and make out the dull glint of a musket as my eyes adjusted to the dark. He tensed at my approach and the musket came up to point toward me.

  “John Barnstaple bade me come,” I said.

  He lowered his musket and opened the door. Inside there was scarcely more light but I could see the shapes of barrels and crates of bottles lining the walls. At the far end there was a table, and a man was seated behind it. Others sat at either side of him, leaning their arms on the table and whispering into his ear. The cellar was lit in such a way that I could see none of the men’s faces. They were just shapes and murmured voices. But I knew John Barnstaple by the set of his shoulders and the way he raked his hand through his hair. I knew him from his smell when I stood behind him, his salty s
harp scent mingling with the warm nutty smell of the silk he worked with all day.

  The men fell silent when I approached them, some gawping at me as if a woman were as unexpected as an elephant. “Miss Kemp works in the Thorel household,” said Barnstaple, his voice low. “She will take the demand to Elias Thorel.”

  “Is it ready?” I asked him. The darkness and the muskets were not what I had been expecting. The blank, anonymous faces of the weavers scared me, and I wanted to get out of the cellar as soon as I could.

  “What time is it?” asked Barnstaple.

  “Time enough,” said one of the men. “He’s had his chance.”

  Barnstaple picked up a quill and dipped it into the ink pot. One of the men lit an extra candle and the paper in front of him became illuminated in a circle of light among the shadows. “What would you have me write then, Duff?”

  Duff planted his fists on the table and spoke, his voice rough as carriage wheels over gravel. “Tell him we waited here until the agreed hour. Tell him that he has failed to pay the subscription required by our committee.”

  Barnstaple started to write, the scratching of his quill stopping and starting in time with Duff ’s gruff voice.

  “Tell him he has one more week to pay his subscription and that if he does not …”

  Barnstaple’s quill paused over the paper, a bead of ink gathering at its tip. It hung there—a tiny threat suspended over the page—while he looked from one man to another. One stepped forward. “Perhaps we do not need to say more. It is enough to tell him that he needs to pay by the end of the week. He will come to his senses.”

  “King George will come to his senses before he does,” said one of the others. A snigger rippled among them.

  “We’ll tell him,” said Barnstaple, coldly, “that this is his last chance.” I glanced around, wondering whether Bisby Lambert was about to step out of the shadows, but he didn’t. I was glad he wasn’t there. Standing between them, I would have felt as if I were in the middle of a thoroughfare with two carriages hurtling toward me from opposite directions.