The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  ‘Five, including the last.’

  ‘Oh, he must be so very taken with you. Is he wonderfully handsome?’

  ‘Tall and slim, with the deepest brown eyes imaginable.’ Susannah lowered her voice, checking across the table to make sure her mother was not listening. ‘He’s in the Guards.’

  ‘The ones who wear those wonderful red jackets?’

  Susannah nodded, her cheeks blushing a similar hue.

  ‘Oooh, you are so lucky,’ Lizzie sighed. ‘I cannot wait to be eighteen.’

  ‘You must come with us to Bath next summer.’

  Lizzie looked across to Anna. ‘And can my cousin come too?’

  Susannah laughed gaily. ‘Of course! The more the merrier. It is so much fun.’

  Anna forced herself to smile. From what she’d heard, the summer season at Bath was a market where mothers paraded their daughters in front of potential suitors like so many farmers showing off their sheep or cattle to meat buyers. The very idea filled her with horror.

  The lively, informal conversation between Lizzie and Susannah only seemed to highlight her own difference: their shared enthusiasm for fashion, dancing and prospective husbands was a world away from her own, more serious interests in art, literature and the ways of the world. It made her feel even more like an outsider than ever.

  At last the formalities were ended and as they set foot outside the sun came out to greet them. Losing her nerve at the last moment, she left the basket with sketchpad and pencils behind.

  The garden was so much wider and longer than she had expected, hidden on all sides behind high brick walls. The parade of ladies, followed by Mr Ehret, strolled the gravelled paths between wide rectangular raised borders, exclaiming and sighing over the planting that, even in early September, provided a truly colourful display of Michaelmas daisies, dahlias and late roses as well as many foliage plants that Anna could not identify.

  ‘My dear Augusta, this truly is a sight to salve the soul,’ Aunt Sarah gushed. ‘How fortunate you are to have a wide expanse for your palette. In Spital Square we have such a cramped little outdoor space it seems barely worth the effort of planting it.’

  Towards the end of the garden the path led between a row of espalier trees laden with red and golden apples to a handsome, vine-covered pergola shading three stone benches. Anna manoeuvred a seat next to Mr Ehret once more, who immediately began to examine the leaves of the vine, already starting to take on autumn colours.

  ‘You see,’ he said, plucking a leaf. ‘How the stalk has begun to go red from where it joins the stem, then gold towards the base of the leaf?’ Anna nodded, eager to absorb his observations. ‘And the leaf itself, it is such a beautiful thing, a fascinating study. The outermost points are the first to colour, and the area around the veins is the last,’ he said, pointing out the reddening edges and the golden skeleton of veins leading out from where the stalk was attached.

  ‘But there are still patches of green, between the red and yellow,’ Anna said. ‘How does that happen?’

  ‘Well observed, Miss Butterfield,’ Ehret said. ‘The truth is we do not yet know why this happens in some leaves and not in others. There is much careful study among botanists to try to divine how and why leaves colour and die in the winter. It is one of many mysteries we have not yet uncovered. In the meantime the best we can do is record it as faithfully as possible. That is my modest role in the great scientific adventure.’

  He held the leaf up against the sun. ‘See how the light filters through in different ways, depending on the depth of colour?’ he said. ‘How the red is almost black, the yellow quite golden? And how the network of tiny capillaries now becomes clear?’

  He leaned forward to point out another leaf, on which raindrops were still hanging. ‘This is fascinating,’ he said. ‘Each drop of water acts as a magnifying glass, so that we see the capillaries even more clearly as we look through it.’

  Anna was enthralled. ‘For all my many hours of drawing, I feel I have been almost blind,’ she sighed.

  ‘Do not be concerned, my dear,’ he said with a kindly smile. ‘You have your whole life before you, and all you need to do is observe until you feel you know every detail of every leaf, every petal, every stalk. And then you must record, and look, and look again, and look yet again. From what I have been told you already have the talent, and I can see from the way you listen that you also have the passion to be a great artist one day.’

  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small sketchbook and a short, well-sharpened graphite with which he began, with the surest of hand, to draw in miniature the leaf with the drop of rain resting upon it.

  ‘The serrations of the leaf go thus . . . this curl of the leaf needs to be shaded like this to give us depth . . . but where we see the back of the leaf, observe this, it is much paler . . . the veins all meet at the apex of the stem, not partway up, as with some leaves. And here are our raindrops, two – no, three – in descending diameter . . . I leave the white paper to shine through to show how they glitter and refract the sunlight . . . thus.’

  This was the ultimate lesson from a master of his art, and Anna knew that she must try to understand and remember every word. At last, the sketch was complete. He signed it with a flourish, tore it from his sketchbook and presented it to her.

  ‘For me?’ she said, blushing.

  He nodded.

  ‘I cannot accept. It is too generous.’

  ‘Of course you must, my dear,’ he said, with the kindest smile. ‘I made it for you.’

  Before she could object any further, they were interrupted by a raucous shout. ‘There you all are! I’ve been looking everywhere.’

  ‘Charles, my dearest,’ his mother called, as the gangly frame came striding down the path towards them. ‘We have been enjoying the late sunshine with Mr Ehret. Come and join us.’

  Mr Ehret leapt to his feet in greeting, and Charles proceeded along the row of ladies, welcoming each in turn. When he came to Anna he held on to her hand a fraction longer, taking it to his lips. She felt his gaze piercing her, immobilising her like a butterfly pinioned inside a frame.

  ‘Miss Butterfield, what a pleasure. The city has been treating you well, I can see, for you are looking even more charming than I remember.’ He sat down beside her in the space that Mr Ehret had vacated. ‘Tell me what you have been up to since we last met.’

  ‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ she replied. Although much had happened, none of it must ever be allowed to reach the Hinchliffes’ ears. ‘The city appears to be very quiet in August.’

  ‘Indeed. All sensible people leave the city in summertime,’ he said, apparently unaware of the affront his words might cause. ‘And how is my good friend William?’

  ‘He seems well, I think.’ In fact, she had noticed, over the past few days, that her cousin appeared even more subdued than ever. At first she’d put it down to worry over the money he owed and the issue of the French silk, but at supper the previous evening he had looked sweaty and a little bilious, and he left much of his plate untouched. He had left the table early, as was his custom, but had not rushed out as usual. She longed to find the opportunity to ask him whether he’d been able to repay the money she’d caught him stealing, but the right moment never seemed to arrive. Before she could leave the table herself, she’d heard him climbing the stairs to his room, and he was not seen for the rest of the evening.

  ‘Please tell him I will see him at the club tonight. He is expected. And may I call on you at the Sadler house, perhaps tomorrow or the next day?’ Charles was saying.

  ‘That would be delightful,’ she said. The air had cooled as the sun slipped downwards in the sky, and she suppressed a shiver.

  Before long everyone agreed that it was too chilly to remain in the garden and Aunt Sarah declared that it was time to leave. As they said goodbye, Mr Ehret gave another of his formal little bows. ‘It was such a pleasure to talk to a fellow artist, Miss Butterfield. I do hope we have the opportu
nity to talk further in the not-too-distant future.’

  ‘Indeed I would like that very much,’ Anna said, her cheeks glowing pink from the compliment. ‘I shall try to practise what you have taught me, Mr Ehret. And I shall treasure your sketch for ever.’

  ‘My dear, I am unworthy of your flattery, but I thank you for it all the same,’ he said, bowing more deeply this time.

  Charles was invited for tea at Spital Square the following day.

  Betty was dispatched to buy fresh tea, milk, cakes and sweetmeats. ‘Girls, you will make the drawing room ready for our visitor,’ Sarah instructed. ‘Make sure the cushions are well plumped, and put out some appealing books and journals on the tables, my dears, so we may impress him with our wide-ranging interests. It often helps to stimulate a conversation of consequence. Lizzie, please practise your most charming pieces for the harpsichord in case we would like music to entertain us.’

  When he arrived, Aunt Sarah insisted that Charles should take a seat beside Anna on the settle and, after they had finished tea and endured a further uncomfortable ten minutes of polite conversation, Lizzie was cajoled into playing the harpsichord and Sarah picked up her embroidery frame, moving to a seat by the window.

  ‘Don’t mind if I leave you young things to chat among yourselves, do you? I need the light for such close work. This handkerchief has been promised to a friend and I cannot delay.’ Anna observed these manoeuvres with amusement and a little unease. This was the carefully engineered opportunity Charles had been waiting for, even expecting.

  ‘Miss Butterfield . . .’ he began.

  ‘Anna, please.’

  The first time they met she had thought his eyes, so close-set either side of that prominent nose, rather piercing and unkindly, but his face seemed to have softened, the narrow cheeks filled out and less sallow.

  ‘Anna. I have so enjoyed the opportunity of getting to know you a little better but there is an additional purpose to my visit. On Saturday week we – that is, my family and I – are attending the annual autumn ball at the Inns of Court and it would be so very delightful if you were able to accompany us.’

  Anna felt the blush spreading across her chest, so vulnerably exposed by the low neckline of her dress, up her neck and flooding her cheeks. Despite her misgivings, she was flattered that Charles thought enough of her to invite her to such an important event, at the Inns of Court, no less. But a ball? As the implication began to sink in, her head filled with terror. She’d heard of the elegant French-style dances that city folk enjoyed, but the closest she’d come to anything like it was at the assembly rooms in Halesworth and there they only did the polka and other country dances. How could she attend a proper ball with so little time to prepare? She had only ever tried to dance the minuet once in her life; that had been enough for her to appreciate how complex it was, how it needed to be accomplished with confidence and elegance. She would make a complete fool of herself.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she began. ‘I do not think . . .’

  ‘Charlie, please.’

  ‘Mr . . . Charlie. I do not think . . . without a chaperone . . . my uncle . . .’

  ‘Mr Sadler will be perfectly satisfied, do you not think, Mrs Sadler, when he hears that my mother, father and sister will be also there?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Sarah responded instantly. She had been hanging on every word, of course, her embroidery neglected, the needle hanging loosely on its thread. ‘I am sure this would be perfectly acceptable.’

  By the time Charles took his leave, all was settled. Afterwards Aunt Sarah, flushed with excitement, called her into the drawing room. ‘This is such a wonderful opportunity, my dear,’ she fluttered. ‘Just think, the Inns of Court – such a prestigious event. There will be so many important and influential people there. I am so pleased for you. We must make sure you are dressed in your very best. The sackback in the yellow damask, don’t you think? You do look most alluring in it. But you will need something warm to wear for the journeys – the evenings are drawing in so these days. A cloak? No? You have no cloak? Oh my goodness, we must get Miss Charlotte onto the task immediately.’

  She fanned herself so violently with her embroidery frame that the needle flicked from its thread into a far corner of the room.

  ‘Charles is such a charming young man, do you not think? And with such prospects. A lawyer – just imagine? There is always work for a lawyer. We will have you settled by the end of the year, my dear, I can promise that. Oh, I cannot wait to tell your father.’

  Anna’s heart recoiled, but she held her tongue. She must write to him straight away, before her aunt could do so. She did not want to be ‘settled’, like a business deal. She wanted to be in love.

  12

  Be warily silent in all concerns as are in matter of dispute between others. For he that blows the coals in quarrels he has nothing to do with, has no right to complain if the sparks fly in his face.

  – Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate

  It was at noon, when they ceased their looms for the lunch break, that they first heard the hubbub of voices, like distant thunder, billowing over the rooftops and reverberating through the streets.

  ‘Whatever is that?’ The apprentice Benjamin leapt from his loom bench and went to the window. As he opened it, the sound magnified into a roar over which individual, though not identifiable, shouts could be heard. Henri, Benjamin and the drawboy looked at each other, their eyes wide in a mixture of curiosity and alarm.

  They peered down into the street below. Many of the neighbours were out on their doorsteps, some already walking towards the end of the road in the direction of the noise. The three of them tumbled down the loft ladder and the two sets of stairs to the ground floor, elbowing each other as each tried to be first. M. Lavalle was already on the doorstep.

  ‘What do you think it is, master?’ Benjamin asked.

  ‘Word has it that the journeymen will march to Parliament today, to protest against a bill which will allow the import of foreign silks,’ he said. ‘The Company has already sent representatives, but it seems their pleas have fallen on deaf ears, so the journeymen are taking the matter into their own hands. I fear it may result in violence,’ he sighed. ‘Which will do no good for their cause.’

  ‘May I go to see?’ Henri said. ‘So that I can report back to you?’

  M. Lavalle frowned. ‘I cannot stop you, my boy, for you are no longer indentured and are entitled to your midday break. But I must warn you that you do not have my blessing to join the march, no matter how persuasive the exhortations of your fellows. And beware, if previous demonstrations are anything to go by, there will be violence. Proceed with the utmost caution. Ensure that you are nowhere near any such eruptions or associated with any who take part in them, especially the Bold Defiance men. The Guards will crack down without mercy.’

  ‘Absolument, monsieur,’ Henri said, leaping down the steps. ‘I will be most careful – and I’ll be back within the half hour, I promise.’

  At the end of the road he could already see the throng spilling across Red Lyon Street, creating an unholy crush in every direction. It was a gathering of humanity larger than Henri had ever seen, reaching out so far that he could not tell where it ended. There must be well over two thousand men, he thought to himself, their faces hungry-looking, their sunken eyes fiery with desperation. Many were clothed in little more than rags and some were even barefoot. What bitter irony, he thought, for men who wove the most sumptuous fabrics in the land.

  They reminded him of the time when he and his mother had been close to starvation, how they had worn out their shoes walking to London and had gone barefoot until the French church took them in and clothed them. But he had never witnessed hardship on this scale. It was dizzying to comprehend. How shielded I have been, he thought, how fortunate to have been taken in by Monsieur Lavalle.

  Angry coachmen, cart drivers and pedlars hurled volleys of abuse as they tried to
push their way through the mob to reach the market. It made no difference: the crowd’s attention was elsewhere, held by a tall, bearded man shouting through a conical loudhailer from a position high on the steps of Christ Church.

  ‘We can brook no further delay,’ he was calling. ‘Letters and petitions through the official channels have made not a jot of difference to their lordships. They appear to care more for covering their own lazy arses –’ the crowd booed and made farting noises ‘– and the tits of their mistresses in fine French silks –’ more jeers, accompanied by vulgar gestures ‘– than they do for the poverty of their own countrymen.’

  Henri scanned the throng until his eyes burned, trying to spot Guy. He had not seen his friend since that desperate night two weeks before, but felt sure he must be here, somewhere. If he could not see him, he feared he might have to assume the worst.

  ‘Today is the opening of Parliament, so all the Members will be there. But it must be a peaceful demonstration, you understand. There are to be no punches thrown, nor stones. A riot would only serve to undermine our cause. Do I have your word?’ The speaker was rewarded with a murmur of agreement, even though some among the crowd were carrying sticks and stakes, which surely meant they were set for a fight. Their fearsome expressions and angrily muttered utterances underlined their obvious intent.

  ‘We’re going to get the bastards.’

  ‘Yeh, make ’em suffer.’

  ‘Show ’em they can’t treat us like animals any more.’

  ‘Fair pay for a fair day’s work, that’s all we want.’

  ‘They’ve got to stop that illegal trade in effing French silk. It’s ruining us.’

  ‘It’s starving us.’

  ‘We’ve had enough.’

  ‘We’re going to tell ’em. Loud and clear.’

  The clock on Christ Church sounded the half hour. As Henri went to leave, he heard a familiar voice: ‘Henri, ça va?’ It was Guy, even thinner and more unkempt than before, but at least he was not in prison. Henri ran to his friend, embracing him. ‘Where have you been? Did the Guards ever . . . ?