Blackberry and Wild Rose

by Sonia Velton

  The drop of ink from Barnstaple’s quill fell onto the letter and bloomed, like spilled blood, over the paper. Barnstaple growled in annoyance and crumpled it, taking another. “We need say no more than this,” he said. I read over his shoulder as he wrote.

  Mr. Thorel,

  You are desired to send the full donation of all your looms to the Eight Bells on Red Lion Street. To be levied, 6 pence per loom.

  This, from the Conquering and Bold Defiance

  What had possessed me to come here? I had known that bad blood flowed between the masters and their weavers, but I had not expected this simmering resentment. I was risking so much. When Madam had found out that I had been going to Buttermilk Alley, she had yanked the keys to 10 Spital Square from around my waist and hidden them from me. I was no longer trusted to come and go from the house. A penny—which I had pressed into Moll’s palm that evening—had ensured the door would be left off the latch when I got back, but no one could conjure me from my empty room if Madam happened to need an extra blanket. But even as these thoughts came into my mind, I knew the simple answer: I still hoped Barnstaple would do the right thing by me and his child.

  “Will he pay, d’you think?” said a voice opposite me. When I looked up to see who had spoken, I saw that he was little more than a boy, his chin jutting and proud, his eyes gleaming with appetite for a fight. I had seen him before: it was Ives, the boy from that night at Buttermilk Alley. I knew him to be Lambert’s nephew. What would Lambert say if he knew Ives was in a tavern cellar in the middle of the night, plotting against Lambert’s own master?

  “He will, if he knows what’s good for him.” Barnstaple folded the letter, then picked up the candle and dripped a few drops of wax onto the overlapping edge. He had no seal so he pressed a shilling onto the wax, as if to remind Elias Thorel of what was expected of him.

  * * *

  When I got back, I took the note to the master’s withdrawing room. His wig was next to his desk, placed correctly on its stand. In the light from my single candle the shadows played tricks on me and I could almost feel the smooth, faceless wood of the stand watching me as I put the weavers’ final demand on top of his pile of ledgers.

  Esther

  I watched Sara’s belly as if I were scanning the earth for signs of spring. But Sara was a slight girl and her infant looked to be no different. I gave her a draping shawl and she took to it like an old woman, wrapping herself in it, shielding herself from the household’s curious gaze. She kept to my rooms mostly, and if Elias needed anything, Moll was sent. An arrangement that occasioned no complaint from anyone.

  But, still, the birth could not be far away, and she had to agree what would be done with the child.

  “Sara,” I said to her, as she sat beside me, sewing, “do you know when your confinement will come?”

  She said nothing, keeping her head bent to her stitches.

  “It must be soon, surely no more than a month or two,” I went on. “I’m worried that the weather is so bad that travel will be difficult. Perhaps you should go to the lying-in hospital sooner, rather than later.”

  She nodded slightly, then carried on with her stitches.

  “You are very lucky,” I continued. “Mrs. Arnaud has agreed to help us make a petition to the Foundling Hospital. Your baby will be well looked after there. He will be educated and learn a trade. Shoemaker or glover, perhaps.”

  She gave her thread such a sharp little tug that the material puckered. “My baby is not a foundling.”

  “It is a child whose mother cannot look after it. That is much the same thing.”

  She did not respond.

  “Really, Sara, do you know how difficult it is to get a place there? Mrs. Arnaud says—”

  “I do not want the Arnauds to have anything to do with my child.”

  Her vehemence surprised me. “Whatever do you mean? They are one of the most respected couples in our community. If it were not for Mrs. Arnaud’s connections with the committee, you would not have the chance of a place that you do.”

  “Respected?” she almost spat.

  “Listen, Sara,” I tried to keep my voice measured, “I have promised Mrs. Arnaud that you will still have a position here if the Foundling Hospital takes your baby. Your child’s place depends on it. Please don’t make me go back on my word.”

  “You don’t understand, madam.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I met Mr. Arnaud before I came here.”

  “Really?” It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her, more that I thought she must be mistaken. I couldn’t imagine how the paths of a girl like Sara and the most influential mercer in Spitalfields could possibly cross.

  “At the Wig and Feathers.”

  I shook my head. “No, Sara, don’t tell stories—”

  “Stories?”

  “They are trying to help us. We mustn’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “Must we not?” Her voice was deliberately high-handed, mocking my own. “What if I told you that Arnaud is a disgusting old man who almost killed me because he likes to bake his bread in a cold oven?”

  “I don’t even know what you are talking about!”

  She glared darkly at her sewing. “No, of course you don’t. Why would you?”

  “Sara, whatever it is that you feel, you must set it aside. D’you hear me? They cannot find out about you.”

  She didn’t look up, but I saw her needle pause as it pricked up through the unbleached linen, heading a trail of spidery stitches. “What do you mean?” Her voice was airy with false innocence.

  “The authorities cannot find out about your life at Mrs. Swann’s.”

  She drew the thread slowly though the material. “And what if they do?” She was almost cavalier, as if it would be my problem, not hers.

  “You don’t want to know,” I said simply.

  I saw her blanch and, for a snatched moment, I enjoyed her discomfort. Then I heard a shout of rage from Elias’ withdrawing room, the like of which I had never heard before.

  26

  Sara

  I had already imagined Elias Thorel’s reaction when he sat down at his desk and saw the note. The set of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes. His finger sliding through the wax seal and the impatient search through the letter. And when he had read it, would he clench his fist and thump the desk so that the pile of ledgers jumped and slid? I imagined Madam coming in at just the wrong moment, chattering about reupholstering the chairs, until he cursed her trivial concerns and snapped at her to leave.

  But it did not happen like that. Instead, he howled like a dog from his withdrawing room and Madam flew in there with her embroidery still in her hand. Even Moll was startled, craning her neck from the stairs to see what was going on.

  “Who put this here?” he shouted at her. “Was it Lambert?” He sounded hurt, confused. Guilt crept across my skin in hot little prickles. I heard Madam denying it, saying that such a trusted journeyman would never do such a thing. “No matter,” he said. I imagined the defiant shake of his head. “I’ll see them all hang before I submit to this.” There was a rustle of paper, as if he balled up the letter in his fist. Perhaps he brandished it under her nose as if she had written it herself. Then came the sounds of her trying to pacify him, soft murmurings as if she were speaking to a child, but he continued to rant until his rage burned itself out and he became like a fire in the grate, merely glowering unless disturbed, in which case he would start to crackle and spit again.

  The strength of his anger took me by surprise. The unease I had felt in the tavern grew stronger, until it fluttered like a trapped moth in my chest. I could not imagine reconciliation between the men in the tavern with their muskets, and Elias fuming in his withdrawing room. And what of Madam and her little drawings? They had seemed mere trifles to me, just another way that a woman who has too littl
e to do might amuse herself. But perhaps they were more than that.

  Esther

  At the broad part of Oxford Street there was a creaking sign—a pair of scissors painted bright gold—above a door that opened onto a courtyard. Mrs. Astley’s French Warehouse was in the far corner, its plate-glass windows distorting the colors of the silks behind so that the shop front resembled a patchwork quilt. Many of Elias’ silks were sold there—bolts of lustrings, satins, velvets, and damasks—lined up on shelves among the work of other master weavers.

  When I opened the door, Mrs. Astley was rolling out a bolt over her wooden worktop and cutting it to the yard. The shop was unusually quiet. Often it was full of le bon ton fussing over her new wares. When she saw me, she put down her scissors and came over, tucking her hair up under her cap and smoothing her skirts as she stepped across the stone floor. She greeted me pleasantly, but she did not know me: it was Mr. Arnaud who sold our silks across London.

  “A perfume for you, perhaps, madam?” she said, smiling. I caught the scent of violet, musk, and jasmine as Mrs. Astley waved her hand in front of a shelf of the latest French perfumes.

  “Actually, Mrs. Astley, I am here to see your silks.”

  She nodded encouragingly. There was far more money to be made from a silk than a perfume. But I was not there to buy. I wanted to sell the silks I designed and to do that I needed to know whether fashion was favoring shades of pink or green or something else entirely.

  She left me to browse and went back to her cutting, only glancing up at me occasionally, no doubt wondering when to time her sale. There were more than ten different silks on offer, all with designs much larger and less realistic than my own. It occurred to me that mine was something new and quite unlike any other silk you could buy.

  Mrs. Astley appeared beside me. “Have you seen something you like?”

  “They are all lovely,” I said, “but none quite what I am looking for.”

  Mrs. Astley’s gaze grew flinty. “I understand, madam. Come with me.” She touched her hand to my arm and guided me to the back of the shop, ignoring my gentle protests. She ushered me through a door so low that I had to bend to avoid hitting my head on the frame. I went down a few steps and then I was standing inside a small room. The only light came from a long window high on the far wall. We were below street level and I could see the busy footfall of Oxford Street passing by the window and hear the jolt and clatter of the carriages. It was some kind of store room and the walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves of wines, cordials, and jars of capers.

  “Now then,” said Mrs. Astley, taking a key from around her waist and unlocking a cabinet in the corner, “I think I have just what you are looking for.”

  She took out a pile of folded cloth and brought it to a table in the center of the room. She unfolded each square and began to lay them out. Soon the space was covered by sections of cloth with bold floral designs.

  “Feel one,” suggested Mrs. Astley, holding out the piece nearest to me. I took it in my hand. It was soft to the touch, but the weave was firm and neatly done. Up close I could see that the design had been printed, rather than woven into the fabric.

  “Indian calico,” said Mrs. Astley, her voice a loud whisper. So there it was: the pretty contraband fabric that was causing us so much difficulty.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Best you don’t ask me, madam,” said Mrs. Astley. Then she took the piece from my hand and shook it out so that I could see it properly. “It’s so light and delicate, isn’t it?” she said, swishing it in front of me. “You could make a gown in time for this summer. Imagine how cool and comfortable it will be. And a fraction of the price of silk,” she added pointedly, fixing me with that same flinty stare.

  I bought some. Just a yard, printed with a bright pattern of a flower I could not identify. I thought it was important to have a sample for the sake of comparison. I could always make something with it later and take it to the poorhouse.

  Mrs. Astley packaged it neatly for me and I left holding the parcel as I had not brought a basket with me. I was halfway across the courtyard when I sensed someone come up behind me. Then another man stepped out in front of me as if from nowhere. He had a tricorne pulled so low over his eyes that I could not make out his face, but it was clear from his clothes and shoes that he was a working man.

  “Made a purchase, have you, madam?”

  “What concern is it of yours?” I asked him, more annoyed than worried.

  “It’s every bit our concern if it’s calico,” said the other man, rounding on me and standing next to his companion. He had the same style of hat tilted over his eyes, and as I was trying to see his face, the other man snatched the parcel from my hands and ripped the paper apart.

  “Ha!” he said, thrusting it back at me. I clutched it in surprise, my eyes searching the empty courtyard for someone who could help me. Then I felt something spatter over me.

  “Calico, madam!” the men hissed in unison. I looked down and saw that the calico was soaked in a black liquid and my bodice was spattered with blotches of the same stuff. I tried to cry out, but somehow terror muted me and I stood there half gasping, half sobbing while the men laughed and ran off.

  27

  Sara

  “It’s just ink, Sara,” said Madam, batting away my hand as I dabbed at her bodice with a cloth.

  “What an awful thing to happen,” I said. “Where did they come from?”

  “I don’t know.” She seemed tired and exasperated. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she still looked tearful. Even her pale cheeks were peppered with tiny black dots. “I think they were waiting for me. They must know that Mrs. Astley sells calico and watched me through the glass. I’m sure there’s only one reason customers go into that back room. What a fool I’ve been!”

  I said nothing, but I knew enough of the Spitalfields weavers to think that she was probably right. I went to her wardrobe and chose a clean gown for her to wear. I would have washed her face and helped her to dress, but she didn’t seem to want anyone near her, so I went downstairs to ask Monsieur Finet about dinner.

  Then, almost as soon as the tenor bell had sounded, Madam came downstairs and claimed to have a headache. She announced she was going to lie down and did not wish to be disturbed. I left her for a few minutes—she’d had quite a shock—but then I thought that a cup of sweet tea might be just the thing she needed to calm her nerves. I opened her bedroom door slowly, in case she was already resting, but the only thing asleep on her bed was the cat. I set the teacup down on her bedside table.

  I knew where she was. Madam was a meddler who didn’t know what was good for her. Just see what a mess she was in already! Any other woman would have been content as the mistress of a house like 10 Spital Square and married to one of the finest master weavers in all Spitalfields. But not her, I thought, as I climbed the stairs to the attic on the very tips of my toes. She always had to be more than she was. Just like her mother.

  I sat on the top step beneath the trapdoor while I caught my breath. I could hear them inside. His low voice punctuated by her own chiming through. She sounded agitated. Whatever they were discussing, it would be worth listening to. I lifted the door just a crack. They were standing by the loom and the stained calico lay crumpled on the weaving bench. She seemed to be telling him what had happened as I saw her gesture suddenly to her bodice as if to say, It went all over me.

  Then he took a step toward her and she was as close to him as I have ever seen a woman stand with a man who was neither her husband nor paying for the privilege. His jaw was set with rage but to look at his eyes, you’d have thought he might cry. He raised his hand as if he wanted to reach out for her, but he must have thought better of it as it hovered awkwardly until he brought it down again. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “Why? You didn’t do it.”

  “I feel responsible.
They are out of control.”

  She nodded grimly and turned her face slightly away from him. “I had not known,” she said tentatively, “what they were capable of.” Then she turned her face back toward him and said, “We cannot do this anymore. It’s too dangerous. If the weavers found out … if Mr. Thorel found out, I can’t imagine—”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, “don’t say that. No one will find out. I promised you I would help you weave this silk and I will do it.”

  “It is not myself I am frightened for. If they would do something like this to me, think what they might do to you.”

  “I can handle the weavers.” He was surprisingly abrupt, but she seemed not to care.

  “I am scared of what might happen,” she said. There was something about the pointed way she said it and in the way they looked at each other that told me some unspoken conversation was going on that no one could eavesdrop.

  “The silk is almost finished anyway,” she said, her voice gentle.

  “It is not finished. I promised you I would see it through to the end, and I will.”

  “But I won’t come here again,” she said, so reluctantly you’d have thought each word had cost her a guinea.

  His face twisted.

  “Bisby, please.”

  Bisby? My goodness, what on earth has been going on? She reached out toward him, but Lambert shrank from her. Then he snatched up the ink-spattered calico and threw it hard against the wall. Ever so gently, I lowered the trapdoor.

  * * *

  So that was what all those pretty drawings were about. Why could Madam not stick to the matters that concerned her? The dinners, the embroidery, the gowns, and the books of psalms. Why did my mistress consider herself among that order of women who wanted to create art, not just wear it? Many might find that laudable, but not Elias Thorel. There was no mistress of silk in this house, only a master. And even if he could accept his wife’s passion for silk, what husband could accept her spending time in an attic room with another man and no one but the mice and linnets to bear witness?