The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  ‘So, what happened?’ Henri asked, dreading what was to follow.

  ‘They ran out and began going from house to house, shouting and egging each other on, starting to pry open shutters and throw cobbles, you know, with the notes wrapped round them, and breaking people’s windows. At one house they even set fire to a bunch of dried grass and stuffed it through a broken pane. They turned into maniacs,’ Guy said, beginning to shiver again. ‘I was terrified we might be caught.’

  ‘Let alone that you might have killed someone, or burned a whole family to death. Did they attack Sadler’s house?’ Henri held his breath, dreading the answer.

  ‘He got a stone through the fanlight with a note wrapped round it, nothing too serious.’

  ‘For God’s sake, why did you have to get yourself involved? Why did you go with them?’

  ‘I thought I could stop them. I tried, honestly, but they wouldn’t listen.’ Guy chewed a fingernail. ‘And then we saw the Watch coming round the corner.’

  ‘Were you seen?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but the Guards called at my rooms this morning, when I was out making a delivery. My landlady told them I’d be back in half an hour, so I just fled over here.’

  ‘Bon sang de bon Dieu.’ Henri shook his head. Guy was in deep trouble.

  ‘I know, I know. I’m bloody terrified. If I get arrested, I’ll never get work again.’

  It could be a lot worse than that, Henri knew. ‘Isn’t it best to come clean, explain that you were trying to stop them, like you told me?’

  ‘Phuh, you think they’d believe that?’

  Henri could hear the rain gurgling down the gutters, splashing into the street outside. As his friend leaned closer he could smell his breath, rank with fear and self-neglect. ‘I have come to make a request, as my oldest and closest friend.’ Guy paused, struggling for the right words. ‘The only thing that’ll save me is an alibi, someone who’ll say I was with them last night.’

  Henri felt the blood leach from his face. ‘You’re asking me to lie for you? To the law?’

  ‘It’s my only way out.’

  ‘Listen . . . even if I lie for you, any one of the others could swear you were with them, let alone all the other people who saw you out on the streets last night. It would be my voice against a dozen.’ Henri’s mind was in a turmoil of fear for himself, for his mother, for M. Lavalle, Mariette and all those others he might implicate.

  ‘Please? Just do this one thing for me.’

  The silence between them grew thick with mistrust. Henri went to the window, looking out at the rainy street and the houses opposite. With his back to the room, avoiding the look of desperation on his friend’s face, he summoned the courage and the words to express what he knew he must say.

  ‘You are my best friend. If the Guards call, I will vouch for your good character and good intentions, that’s a promise, and I will tell them you tried to stop the violence. But I cannot lie for you.’

  He heard the sudden scrape of the chair and Guy pushed past, almost knocking him to the floor. ‘No thanks for your help, friend. Don’t bother coming to me when you are in trouble.’

  The slam of the front door brought M. Lavalle from his office.

  ‘What’s he been up to now?’

  ‘He’s been an idiot, that’s all.’

  ‘Is it about that list again?’

  ‘I cannot say more, sir.’

  ‘This may be difficult, but you must tell Guy not to call here again, Henri. I feel sorry for him, but he has not heeded our warnings and I fear for his safety. This is a dangerous business. You cannot afford to be connected with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

  M. Lavalle knew not to press the point. From Henri’s pallid cheeks and sweaty brow he could tell he’d been shaken by the encounter. Whatever had transpired, he would no doubt find out before long. ‘You’d better get back to work, then,’ was all he said.

  Henri felt sick with apprehension, dreading each knock at the door, but two days passed without event. Guy failed to appear at church on Sunday morning and, as the priest droned on, Henri tried to imagine where his friend might be: had he gone to ground like an injured fox, lying low at another friend’s house, or perhaps out in the countryside, he wondered? It might be for the best that he stayed away, at least for a while. Much as he loved Guy, his politicking, his anger and resentment about the world of late had brought a sour note to their friendship.

  The previous evening, taking supper with his mother in her rooms, as had become their habit of a weekend, he’d found the courage to talk about it. Clothilde was the only person, apart from M. Lavalle, whom he could trust, and she was quick to reassure her son that his decision was the right one. ‘La vérité finit toujours par éclater,’ she said. ‘Et vous éclate au visage.’ The truth will always come out and return to bite us.

  As Henri crept out of the French church before final prayers his stomach churned with apprehension of a different kind. He ran to Christ Church, where the service was also drawing to an end, and slipped silently into the shadows behind the steps leading up to the organ loft. He wanted to be certain that Anna was alone, or accompanied only by her cousin, before allowing himself to be seen. Worrying about Guy had at least taken his mind off this meeting, but now the butterflies began to dance in his stomach once more.

  He tried to imagine how she would respond, but found it impossible. Whoever knew how girls think, let alone English girls? Would she be cross when he admitted buying her sketch from the stallholder, or would she be flattered? He’d become so fixated on the design that he hadn’t even considered what he would do if she failed to meet him or, worse, refused to give permission for him to use it.

  The service ended and, as the ladies and gentlemen began to file past in their bright silk dresses and jackets, with their ornate hats and finely dressed wigs, he became painfully aware of his own shabbiness, in his well-worn linen jacket and plain serge trousers, with only a brown cloth cap to cover his head. They were his Sunday best, of course, but even so, how could she possibly allow herself to be seen with him?

  As the church emptied he began to fear that she might not have come after all, but then he caught sight of her, hanging behind. She was with her cousin, the girl with the ringlets, but there was no sign of Mr or Mrs Sadler, or William, which meant that she would surely be looking out for him.

  He inched back into the shadows, his feet itching to take flight, but before he knew it, she was standing in front of him.

  ‘Monsieur Vendôme, how do you do?’ she said, holding out a hand. He was so surprised that he hesitated to reciprocate and then responded just in time. Their fingers met briefly and awkwardly, and were quickly withdrawn.

  ‘Miss Butterfield,’ he said, feeling the blush deep into the roots of his hair. ‘Please, my name is Henri.’

  ‘Then you must call me Anna.’ There was that bold gaze again, the one that seemed instantly to draw him into her confidence. ‘And this is my cousin Lizzie Sadler. Lizzie, meet Henri Vendôme, the weaver I told you about.’ Lizzie scowled and bent her head in acknowledgement but did not offer her hand.

  Henri’s mind went blank and an uneasy silence fell between them. All he knew was that he needed to own up about the drawing. He began trying to explain and then, words failing, pulled out the sketch that had been carefully folded inside his jacket, opened it and, with a shaking hand, held it out to Anna.

  ‘But that is my drawing.’ Her voice shrilled with recognition. ‘The one I did in the market, the one I gave to the stallholder. How did you get hold of it?’

  ‘I pay her,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the drawing, fearful of raising them to hers. ‘Good money. All – how you say? – above the boards. I was upstairs at the market and saw you sketching and, you know . . .’ He ran out of words again, recalling the shimmering feeling of revelation he’d had that day as he gazed down on her bowed head, captivated by the designs emerging from the point of her pencil.<
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  He steeled himself to look up and, with relief, saw that her expression was not one of anger, just genuine astonishment.

  ‘Well, I am flattered, of course,’ she said. ‘But may I be so bold as to enquire why you wanted this paltry drawing of mine?’

  ‘You know I am a silk weaver?’

  She nodded.

  ‘To become a silk master I must make a piece of weaving to show my skills. This is called my master piece. If they approve this, I am a Freeman and I set up in business for myself.’

  ‘I understand. But what has my sketch got to do with this master piece?’

  ‘It is difficult to explain,’ he said, with a sideways glance at Lizzie. ‘And there is but a few minutes.’ Behind them, he could see the church officials snuffing the altar candles, folding the white linen cloths used for the Eucharist, gathering hymnals, preparing to close the church. He turned back to Anna and her smile, and found himself almost overwhelmed by the desire to take her hand.

  Lizzie had wandered away, peering up the stairs leading to the organ loft. ‘Can she go up?’ Anna asked. For a second, her hand rested on his jacket sleeve. Even though it was withdrawn almost immediately the warm imprint persisted as a tingle on his skin.

  ‘Mais oui. The organ will not sound unless someone is working the bellows.’

  ‘Be very careful,’ Anna warned.

  ‘I will.’ The girl disappeared, and they were alone.

  Feeling suddenly bold, he led her to one of the benches that ran along each side of the church, where the sun pouring through the clear glass of the high-arched windows reflected off the high ceiling and white walls with an ethereal light. As they sat, side by side, it felt to him like the most natural thing in the world.

  He reached into the pocket of his breeches and brought out the large piece of point paper onto which he’d attempted to translate a section of the design with dots of colour in each of the tiny squares. He unfolded it and smoothed it onto his knee.

  ‘This is how we make a design for weaving,’ he said, thrilling at the warmth of her as she moved closer to scrutinise it. ‘It show us how to set up the loom, how to join the lashes which pull up the warp threads and allow the weft threads to go over them or under them and make the pattern.’

  As he tried, in his halting English, to describe the very complex process in simple terms, he discovered that hand gestures were often easier and more eloquent. Glancing sideways to check whether she was understanding his descriptions, he found himself in danger of losing himself in her face: the serious blue-green eyes, the way she listened so carefully, the little cleft in her forehead that deepened in concentration.

  He sensed that her interest was genuine, not forced. ‘So the warp goes long-ways, the weft from side to side?’ she would ask, or, ‘The warp is the strength and the weft usually provides the change of colour?’ or, ‘So, if you want to make a solid block of the same colour, you just allow that weft thread to stay at the top?’

  ‘Yes, but if this is too big, the fabric will . . .’ He held his palms together, then pulled them an inch apart.

  ‘It will separate, you mean?’ she said. ‘I’d be a hopeless silk designer!’ Laughing with her, watching the way her face lit up, Henri felt happier in this very moment than he could remember ever being before. Time seemed to stand perfectly still. There was no feeling of urgency, just the thrill of sensing her curiosity, and his own desire to help her understand why this meant so much to him.

  ‘Oh, if only you see the loom,’ he said, exasperated by the inadequacy of words. ‘This is how I learn, by watching other weavers.’

  ‘No matter. I am learning so much already,’ she said. ‘The idea of weaving a design makes so much sense, because nature is never just a block of colour,’ she said. ‘Look at the flowers I’ve drawn here.’ She pointed at the sketch still in her hand. ‘This might be a pink flower, but to colour it in a natural way, I would have to use a dozen shades of pinks, oranges, reds and purples, even black, to give the shading which makes the shape look realistic.’

  She had shaded the petals of the flowers so realistically that the blooms seemed to reach out of the paper towards him. Not a single leaf, stalk or petal were flat, all were three-dimensional, entwined around themselves, so true to life that you could imagine them swaying in the breeze. And not a single one was the same: she had reflected all the imperfections of nature, the torn frond, the curled petal, the bent stem.

  She began to gather her skirts. ‘They will be expecting us at home.’

  He could not bear the moment to end. ‘I have this question to ask,’ he said. ‘The question of importance.’

  ‘Go on.’

  They were standing now, facing each other, and he found himself suddenly tongue-tied. ‘May I . . . that is, can you . . . is it possible to . . .’ She was waiting, her face lifted to his, her expression gentle, encouraging. Eventually he blurted it out: ‘I would like to use your design for my master piece, but first I must have your permission.’

  She laughed, her face relieved. ‘Of course you may. I should be delighted.’

  Their faces were turned to each other, eyes meeting, just inches apart. He could almost feel the pressure of those soft lips on his. With any other girl he would have kissed her in a moment, even daring to reach a hand to her breast, but this time he felt curiously constrained.

  Instead, he took her hand. She did not resist and she did not take it away; it rested there, dry and light, with a heat that seemed to sear upwards through his arm and into his whole body.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I am very flattered, sir,’ she said, with a smile that left him breathless. They stood, unmoving, for a few further blissful moments, the sun shining down on them through the window, the only sounds the indistinct murmuring voices of the clergy far away in the vestry, the cooing of pigeons outside and the light clunk of Lizzie’s fingers on the organ keys above. ‘May I see the fabric, when you have woven it?’

  ‘I like to invite you to Monsieur Lavalle’s house, so you see it on the loom,’ he said. ‘But I think that may not be easy?’

  A shadow passed over her face. ‘I think perhaps you are right. I am sorry.’

  He knew it was the truth, and there was little more to be said, but the thought that he might never meet her again left him bereft. After a moment, she took her hand gently from his. He watched, wordlessly, as she prepared to take her leave, smoothing her skirt, straightening her shoulders, checking that her hat was still at the right angle.

  ‘I wish you all the best with your master piece.’ Her smile was so sweet, and so regretful, that it seemed to suck the breath from his lungs. She called to her cousin: ‘Come, Lizzie, it is nearly lunchtime.’

  There was a clatter of feet on the wooden stairway and the spell was broken.

  11

  In conversing with professional gentlemen, never question them upon matters connected with their employment. An author may communicate, voluntarily, information interesting to you, upon the subject of his works, but any questions from you would be extremely rude.

  – The Lady’s Book of Manners

  The encounter with Henri Vendôme had lasted no longer than a quarter of an hour, but whenever she was alone Anna found herself reliving every second of it, in minutest detail.

  There was no doubting that it had left her unsettled. Here she was, trying to find her feet in an unfamiliar city, adapting to the expectations of society. He was a stranger from another social world, another country even, and she was well aware that by talking with him in that intimate way she had crossed the boundaries of acceptable behaviour, risked the wrath of her aunt and uncle and potentially put her reputation in jeopardy.

  Lizzie had made no secret of her disapproval. ‘Whatever were you thinking of, conversing all that time with the French boy, for all the world to see, as though he were one of us?’ she had asked, on their way home.

  ‘He’s a human being, Lizzie, just like you and me. He wanted permission
to use my design for his weaving. I cannot see what is wrong with that,’ she’d retorted, a little too sharply. ‘Anyway, what would you like us to paint this afternoon?’

  ‘So long as that is all he wants,’ Lizzie had replied.

  Anna barely cared. Those few moments in the church appeared gilded, glowing, a shimmering mirage. How easy she had found herself in his company, how plainly he had replied to her questions, struggling a little with the language, of course, but with such honesty.

  Talking to him was like a breath of fresh air after the stiff conversations of her aunt and uncle, who somehow never seemed able to say exactly how they felt, or what they wanted, without embroidering their sentences with extra phrases and convolutions. Nothing was ever said directly. But with Henri, the conversation had flowed in a perfectly simple and uncomplicated way, as though she had known him for years.

  She struggled to understand it: the tremor in her chest when she looked into his dark eyes, the way it had felt perfectly natural when he took her hand, like they were two halves meeting to make a whole. It had been thrilling and utterly irresistible.

  That night she lay in bed, marvelling at this extraordinary turn of events. Could it be true that Henri thought her hastily drawn sketch good enough to recreate in silk? She felt flattered, and proud, that he showed such confidence in her design but at the same time it was alarming that she might hold some kind of responsibility for his future career. It would be the most important piece of weaving of his life, on which his acceptance as a silk master depended.

  If only she knew more about weaving techniques, could understand what would translate into an elegant design, or even what would be considered fashionable. She’d been given a glimpse, as if through a chink in a door, into a wonderful new world of art and ideas, but the extent of her ignorance was like a lock preventing her from ever entering that doorway.

  She tossed and turned as the thoughts tumbled around in her head. And then she remembered, with a realisation so powerful that she found herself sitting upright in bed, her eyes wide open. On her first day in this house Uncle Joseph had shown her the dozens of leather-bound sample books stacked on shelves in the company’s showroom. Each ledger contained dozens of drawings and designs on squared paper and clips of the finished silk, which were pasted or pinned onto the pages. There must be hundreds of silk designs right here in this house, just three floors below her. What a tantalising thought. If only she could study them, to find out more about what makes a good design for weaving into silk.