by Liz Trenow
Meanwhile, Aunt Sarah and Miss Charlotte had been choosing samples of fabric, laying them out on the other end of the table. ‘Look, Anna, tell us what you think,’ said her aunt. In the light from the window the silks shimmered before her eyes like a thousand butterfly wings. Anna was so dazzled that she found herself almost unable to distinguish between the various patterns.
‘Come now, you must have a preference,’ her aunt prompted. ‘Or we will have to choose for you.’ Anna pointed vaguely in the direction of the colours that she liked to use when painting landscapes: leaf green, sea blue, burnt umber, red ochre. By sheer luck it appeared that she had made the right choice. ‘Most suitable for a young lady,’ Miss Charlotte said approvingly, ‘and perfectly à la mode.’
Next morning at breakfast Lizzie announced that she wanted to show Anna their church.
‘Do you not think it would be sensible to wait until your cousin can wear one of her new gowns?’ said her mother gently. ‘They should be ready in a day or two.’
‘But it is so hot,’ Lizzie whined. ‘I was indoors at my studies all day yesterday, and I would so love a little distraction.’
‘Then go into the garden,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘It is shady there.’
‘There’s nothing to see or do in the garden, you know that.’ The girl turned to her father with a pretty, pleading smile, her head on one side, ringlets bobbing. ‘Please, Papa. We wouldn’t go far. Just to the church and back again. We won’t say hello to anyone, I promise.’
Joseph muttered, ‘Can’t see that any harm could come from it.’
‘Just for a couple of hours, then,’ her mother conceded. ‘And don’t be late for luncheon.’
Anna was grateful to Lizzie for pleading the case. For two days now she hadn’t taken a single breath of fresh air. At home, she would be out and about every day, collecting eggs and vegetables, walking down the street to the village store for milk and tea, and back along the beach. Besides, the little exchange had been most instructive. Joseph was clearly prey to his daughter’s charms and out of loyalty Sarah would not contradict him, in front of the family at least. Anna could see now that her cousin could become an important ally.
She was certainly pleased to have Lizzie at her side as they stepped out. The streets were just as noisy, bustling and chaotic as the day she’d arrived.
‘Watch the ground to make sure you don’t step in anything. And don’t catch anyone’s eye – especially the beggars – they’ll only target you,’ Lizzie said, leading her briskly between the crowds, crossing the carriageways fearlessly and deftly avoiding the carriages and wagons that appeared with great speed from each direction. At last they came to a junction, and Lizzie pointed down the street ahead. ‘There it is. Christ Church. It was completed but ten years ago, or twenty, I am not entirely sure. Is it not beautiful?’
The building was truly awe-inspiring. The spire reached so high that Anna’s neck soon ached from peering upwards to the pinnacle; the white stone gleamed almost dazzling white in the sunshine against the blue of the sky above and the dreary grey streets below. As they climbed the wide steps up to its massive pillared portico she felt very small and humble, as though she were about to enter a palace, or somewhere she did not deserve to be.
They eased open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside. It was blessedly cool and quiet, with that dusty smell of ages that seems to pervade all churches, even new ones.
Their village church, a wooden-roofed flint-work building with a single nave, much reduced amid the ruins of its medieval origins, could seat just one hundred souls. This one must surely seat a thousand, perhaps more. Rows of box pews were ranged down the centre and side aisles, above which were wooden galleries almost certainly containing yet more benches.
They appeared to be entirely alone and their footsteps echoed in the soaring, sunlit space. What a splendid reverberation there must be when all these people recite the Lord’s Prayer or intone the psalms, she thought, recalling the timid quaverings of her father’s congregation.
Lizzie sat at a bench and invited Anna to join her. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it is magnificent,’ Anna whispered. ‘More like a cathedral than a church. Do you come every Sunday?’
The reply was shocking in its honesty: ‘Oh no, only occasionally,’ she said. ‘Mother comes when she wants to pray for something good to happen, Father comes because it beholds him to be seen here from time to time, he says, and I like to meet my friends here.’
‘And William?’
‘Refuses to come, ever. Says science is his God, whatever that means.’
‘Is that what he meant when he said that God was an interesting conjecture?’
‘He talks all kinds of nonsense. I don’t listen to him. He has so many theories; each time he comes back from his club he has a new one. All learned from his cronies, no doubt.’
‘What kind of a club is it?’
‘From the smell of him I think they do little more than drink port and smoke cigars. He claims it is a mathematical society, but my guess is that their calculations are mostly about gambling odds.’ Lizzie stood up suddenly. ‘Let’s go to the market before it’s too late. Some of the stalls pack up at lunchtime.’
‘But I thought . . . ?’
‘I don’t care what Mother says, and you want to see the flowers, don’t you?’
As they approached the market building Anna became apprehensive.
‘Won’t we become the object of people’s attention?’ she whispered. ‘What if someone sees us and tells your mother?’
‘Dearest Anna, have you not noticed how I am dressed today?’ In truth she had not, but now she could see that Lizzie was wearing a plainer gown than usual, and her hair was tied under a simple cotton bonnet, much like her own. ‘We look like a pair of country lasses, don’t we?’ Lizzie chuckled. ‘No one will take any notice of us. But hold your breath,’ she shouted over the hubbub of traders’ cries. ‘Thank goodness it’s not Friday, for the fish smells even worse then.’ Anna kept her eyes lowered, unwilling to look too carefully at the bloody carcasses and dead fowl, the displays of liver and intestines and the decapitated hogs’ heads with their blank eyes and mouths stuffed with apples.
The smell became sweeter, even fragrant. Here, fruit was piled into pyramids of every hue: apples in a rainbow of varieties from palest yellow to brightest scarlet, thin green pears as well as rosy round ones, blushing peaches, deep ruby plums, aromatic quinces, golden apricots, greengages, mulberries, blackberries and figs, oranges and lemons. Stands of sweet pink rhubarb stood guard at either side. Each stall was an individual work of art, each trader competing for the finest display.
They passed along a row of vegetable stalls every bit as artistic and colourful as the fruit: salads in all shades of green, cucumbers, leeks, celery, carrots and cauliflower, deep green curly kale, bright red tomatoes – never seen in Halesworth market – and towering constructions of cabbages in every shape, size and colour.
‘Why would someone call another person a cabbage head?’ she asked, recalling William’s jibe.
‘Don’t say it too loudly, it’s rude,’ Lizzie whispered. ‘Where did you hear it?’
‘Just someone in the street.’ This was not a lie, at least.
‘Some people call the French people cabbage heads because they eat a lot of it – it makes them smell, too.’
‘But why are they so unpleasant about the French?’
‘Dearest Coz, you have so much to learn,’ Lizzie said, taking her arm. ‘Half of France is in London these days, although I don’t really understand why they should choose to leave their own country. Many are weavers, good weavers too, which doesn’t please the English. I suppose people resent them, think they have funny ways.’
Further along, they found an aisle of flower stalls. Anna loved to study the wild flowers that grew in the fields and marshes around her village, but knew little of garden varieties save those that somehow thrived in their neglected vicarage gar
den: snowdrops and primroses in spring, delphiniums and roses in summer. At first, the blooms on these stalls appeared exotic and unfamiliar but, as she looked closer, there were among them some that she recognised: lavender, catmint, pinks, lily of the valley, heartsease, auriculas and sweet peas. She found herself smiling at them, like old friends, their vibrant colours and aromas transporting her back to summer days in the village.
On their way out she noticed a wooden staircase in one corner and looked upwards to see where it led. Above them, beneath the roof of the market, was a gallery with further stalls. The railings were hung with what looked like pieces of old cloth.
‘Why are they selling rags?’ she asked.
‘They’re not rags, silly. They’re clothes.’
‘They’re all torn and dirty.’
‘Oh, Anna. Don’t you know anything? That’s because they are second-hand clothes. But there’s still value in them, so people sell them on.’
‘That’s horrible. To wear clothes others have worn. And not even family.’
‘Some people don’t have the choice. They are not as lucky as we are, to have new clothes. Come, we must hurry back now. Mama will be listening for us with her eye on the clock, counting every second.’
As they turned the corner into Spital Square Anna’s stomach did a small somersault. At the side of the square were two young men sitting on a wall in the shade of a large tree, kicking their heels and laughing at a private joke.
As they approached, the eyes of one of them widened in recognition, and she saw that his cheek carried a purple bruise. He stood and took off his cap, making a small bow. Long dark hair fell around his face.
She could feel Lizzie tugging at her arm, whispering, ‘Come on, Anna. You must not talk to French boys.’
‘Mam’selle,’ he said, in that curious accent. ‘I hope you are now fully recovered?’
‘I am well, sir, thanks to your help. I wanted to apologise . . .’ She gestured in the direction of his cheek, their eyes met and they smiled at each other. For a fleeting, astonishing second, Anna felt as though she had known this stranger for ever.
‘De rien, it was nothing,’ the young man said quietly, his gaze falling to the ground.
Lizzie pulled again at her arm, as Anna racked her brain for something more to say so that she could prolong the moment.
‘May I know your name?’ she asked.
‘My name is Henri,’ he said. ‘Henri Vendôme. Silk weaver. À votre service.’ He made another small bow.
‘And I am Anna,’ she said. ‘Miss Anna Butterfield. And once more, thank you for your kindness.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said. ‘Au revoir, Miss Butterfield.’
She allowed herself to be dragged away. So he was a French silk weaver. His eyes might have sparkled with mischief, but he did not look at all likely to demonstrate or be violent. The very opposite, in fact.
‘Whatever were you thinking, talking to a stranger like that?’ her cousin chided.
‘He helped me when I fainted the other day. It would have been discourteous not to stop and thank him.’
‘It would have been wiser not to have done so.’ Lizzie looked around furtively. ‘Let us pray we were not observed. It would cause such a scandal.’
3
Make industry a part of your character as early as possible: Be officiously serviceable to your Master on all occasions: if possible prevent his commands, understand a nod, a look, and do rather more than is required of you, than less than is your duty.
– Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate, 1760
As the girls disappeared around the corner Guy began to dance around his friend making squelchy kissing noises and jerking his hips suggestively.
‘Tais-toi, crapaud.’ Henri chased him and punched him sharply on the arm.
‘Pourquoi?’ Guy said, punching him back. ‘Elle est belle, non, la jeune Anglaise? Another addition to your crowd of adoring admirers?’
‘Ça n’a pas d’importance, idiot. I helped her, nothing more.’ Henri walked away, struggling to persuade himself that this was true. In fact, he had not stopped thinking about her since that first encounter.
Her name was Anna, niece of the mercer Joseph Sadler; that much he knew from his bruising encounter with her cousin William, just a few days ago. One piece of the riddle was in place. But the rest of her was a puzzle. She dressed as a maid but spoke like a lady. Unlike most English women of her class she had been polite enough to acknowledge and thank him and would have talked for longer, he reckoned, had the younger girl not been nagging her. She was tall – almost as tall as himself – skinny and not, at first glance, especially pretty, with all those freckles and eyes that seemed undecided as to whether to be blue or green. In fact, there was little remarkable about her, and yet he could not put her from his mind. She appeared demure and modest, even though she came from a family he’d heard were ruthlessly ambitious and the most snobbish social climbers of the area.
‘Jumped-up weaver, nothing more than the rest of us, that Mr Sadler,’ Monsieur Lavalle had grumbled one day, on returning from delivering some silks to the Spital Square establishment. ‘Just because he’s got a few dukes and duchesses wearing his stuffs.’
Henri never discovered quite why M. Lavalle, normally a peaceable man, should have been moved to speak so strongly against the mercer. He imagined there had been some snub about the quality of the silk he’d been offering to Mr Sadler, or perhaps he suspected that the mercer was importing foreign fabrics. But it wasn’t one’s place, as a journeyman, to question your master.
‘Pas si vite, Henri. Why such a rush?’ Guy called, running to catch up. ‘We still have fifteen minutes.’
‘I must hurry back,’ Henri said. ‘I was only sent to deliver the lustrings to Shelleys. I still have two feet of the damask to weave by dusk.’
‘Surely you don’t need light to weave your miracles.’
Henri’s cheeks coloured. At the time he’d been so delighted by M. Lavalle’s compliment that he had unwisely repeated it to Guy. Now it seemed he would never live it down.
‘It’s such a dark purple it’s impossible to see dropped threads by candlelight, and it’s got to be ready first thing in the morning. See you tomorrow?’
‘À demain. Shall we return to meet your new English sweetheart again? Or will it be the one you were lusting after last week?’
‘Vas au diable,’ Henri cursed cheerfully as they parted and he headed towards Princes Street. It always gave him a happy feeling, safe inside, walking these streets, the silk weavers’ streets – his streets – rows of houses with warp winders hanging over the doors, the songs of birds in their cages and the clatter of looms from the long-light lofts high above the street.
Henri regarded M. Lavalle as a father figure and was only too aware that he owed everything to the master weaver. He barely remembered his own father, who had died when vainly trying to save his sister from drowning in the Bay of Biscay during their flight from France.
Through much subterfuge they had managed to escape from the foul-mouthed dragonnades for whom they, along with all other Protestant families, had been required to provide lodgings. It was supposedly to ensure they had renounced their faith but it also resulted in penury as they were forced to sell their looms to make room for the soldiers, and meet their endless demands for food and wine. To refuse would mean a beating or worse. His elder sister disappeared one day and never returned. He’d heard people whispering, although he did not at the time understand what they meant: that she’d refused a soldier’s advances and paid for her virtue with her life.
‘We have nothing left to stay for,’ his father had whispered late one evening as the soldiers snored in their beds. ‘It is time for us to leave, while we still have a few livres remaining.’
They trudged sixty miles to the coast under the cloak of three long, cold nights, resting during daylight to avoid capture, and arrived at
the port only to learn that the ship for which they had bought tickets had been wrecked. They spent the last of their savings bribing the captain of a small fishing smack – five hundred livres before embarkation, and the promise of a further five hundred on arrival in Plymouth.
These things Henri knew from what his mother, Clothilde, had since told him. All he remembered of that terrible journey was being carried through the surf in the dead of night by a gruff captain with enormous hands and then hauled through a narrow trapdoor in the deck down into the pitch-black bilges of the ship, the stink of rotten fish and the fearful sting of the kippering salt on which they crouched. She had recounted how, before leaving the port, they’d been advised to stand stock-still, in perfect silence, immediately beneath the main beam of the deck above so that their skulls should not be pierced by the swords that customs inspectors would thrust between the planks to detect stowaways.
Sometimes, Henri’s dreams were haunted by other memories: the whites of his parents’ eyes in the darkness as the smack bucked and rolled, his mother’s retching, his sister’s terrified whimpers. And how, as the ship pitched even more violently, they were thrown against the side of the hold, the trapdoor was blown open and they were plunged into a torrent of freezing ocean water. He would always waken at this point, crying out and struggling for breath, knowing that this had been the end of his life as he had once known it.
It was only many years later that his mother managed to steel herself to describe what happened next. They hauled themselves on deck through the trapdoor, battling the cascades of water crashing over the ship, only to discover that the fisherman and his boy had disappeared, presumably washed overboard by that first devastating wave. Their only hope was to lash themselves to the mast and pray that they would ride out the storm, but before they could do this another mountainous surge hit them, dashing twelve-year-old Marie over the side of the ship and into the darkness. His father had immediately jumped in to rescue her, but both had been carried away in the swell, never to be seen again. The last of the family’s savings went with them.