The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  ‘Lying low. But enough time’s gone by now, so I figured . . .’ Guy gestured behind him. ‘Why aren’t you coming with us?’

  Henri could feel the pull of the crowd, the excitement and camaraderie. ‘I am forbidden. I cannot afford to disobey Monsieur Lavalle, not right now. You must take care, Guy.’

  Guy scowled his disapproval. ‘Will you obey your master over your fellow workers, par le sang de Dieu?’

  ‘It’s not like that. You know why. I have to support my mother – I cannot afford to lose my job.’

  The drums had started again, dozens of colourful banners were raised, and the crowd was moving, pressing forward so that Guy began to be carried away with them. ‘Maudit cadavre pestiféré,’ he mouthed over the din, pumping his fist in front of his crotch. ‘When will you grow up to be a man?’

  The Red Lyon was packed with journeymen returned from the demonstration, their faces ablaze with triumph and ale: ‘There was at least three thousand there, I swear it.’ And: ‘Them lace makers came good to their promise – a few hundred of them, I’d vouch, swelling our numbers.’

  As far as anyone knew, there had been only one or two outbreaks of violence and damage was restricted to a few broken windows in the House of Commons. Five men had been arrested, three of those later released without charge. Despite this, all agreed the demonstration had been a great success. ‘We got them toffs running scared, didn’t we?’ they bragged. ‘So worried they sent for the Gunners.’

  ‘Let’s hope the sight of all those hungry men will scare Parliament into action,’ M. Lavalle murmured gloomily. He’d insisted on accompanying Henri to gather information about the demonstration, and, Henri assumed, to make sure he did not get into trouble. ‘Some cannot even afford to buy bread. If this goes on much longer, thousands will starve.’

  ‘Surely they won’t allow that to happen?’

  ‘We do what we can at the church, but charity alone cannot address such suffering.’

  On the way home they met Guy, clearly the worse for beer. ‘Had a nice easy day, did you?’ he slurred, veering across the street towards them. ‘Looking after your own fat arse while we risked our necks to support our friends?’

  ‘It was on my account he could not join you,’ M. Lavalle said, stepping between them. ‘I would not allow it because we have a deadline on an important commission and no one can afford to turn down work these days. But I was glad to hear that the demonstration was peaceful. I’m sure it will have the desired effect.’

  ‘The desired effect, mon oeil,’ Guy mumbled, swaying on his feet, his eyes trying to focus. He snorted and spat a fat oyster of phlegm at their feet, before gathering himself and meandering away.

  What M. Lavalle had said was no lie. Henri and Benjamin had been working on a large order of silk for the newly rich colonials across the Atlantic Ocean. The work was so prestigious and the design so secret that M. Lavalle could not risk outsourcing it to other journeymen, and this meant that both of the looms at Wood Street were fully engaged and Henri had been unable to make any progress on the new design for his master piece.

  Five days had passed since his meeting with the English girl Anna, and it now seemed to him like a dream, unreal and unlikely. But he found himself thinking of her much of the time, longing to be in her presence once again, to hear her talk in that forthright way; to tell her of the funny moments in his life and the sad, to share his hopes and fears, to talk about the guilt and sorrow he felt towards his old friend Guy.

  The longing was worst at night, in the dark, in his truckle bed. It was then that she appeared to him again, placing her hand on his sleeve, the heat of it travelling up his arm and coursing through his body. When this translated into physical hunger he felt ashamed, as if sullying her memory, but could not resist pleasuring himself with the vision of her face before him.

  With the morning would come reality and the sobering knowledge that, in all probability, he would never speak to her again. She had given permission for him to use the design, and that was it. She would marry some well-respected society figure, and he would go back to flirting with other girls – and so often finding himself disappointed – until he could make enough money to take a wife, probably a homely soul who would cook and sew, and care for him in his fading years.

  He admired the drawing just as much as he had the first time he set eyes on it, but as the days passed he began to doubt his ability to weave it. He asked his master once again, was it good enough for a master piece? But the old man would not be drawn. ‘It is a very fine piece of work,’ he allowed. ‘The girl has great talent. But it is your challenge to translate that into a fine piece of silk.’

  Mariette positively bubbled with enthusiasm. ‘Oooh, it’s heavenly,’ she shrilled. ‘Completely wonderful. I want it for my new gown.’ She looked up at him with those coy, dewy eyes. ‘Is it your drawing, no, surely not? Wherever did you get it?’

  When he would not reply, she pressed her point. ‘Tell me, Henri. Who exactly is this clever artist? Why are you so secretive?’

  ‘I cannot tell you until the piece is finished,’ he improvised. ‘But then, I promise, the secret will be revealed.’

  ‘You are such a tease. I hate you,’ she cried, flouncing out of the dining room. As he crept past the parlour shortly afterwards he could hear the harpsichord being hammered inexpertly, with many discordant notes.

  And then the realisation came to him. Of course! Why had he not thought of it before? The one person whose judgement he could really trust was Miss Charlotte. She met discerning customers every day of the week – it was her business to know what was in and what was out this season. Had she not been kind to him when he had called on her the first time? He remembered her words distinctly now: she’d told him not to hesitate should he need any further help, as she would be pleased to give it. He would show Miss Charlotte the design, and if she liked it, that would settle the matter.

  Two days later, when the silk for the Americas was completed, taken off the looms, carefully packed and lowered to the street from the gantry for delivery to the mercer, Henri requested the afternoon off. They had been working long hours to meet the deadline, often by candlelight after the evenings had drawn in, and M. Lavalle was in a genial mood.

  ‘You’ve certainly earned a few hours of liberty,’ he said, pulling out his purse. ‘On your way home, buy us some hot meat pies for our supper and a few bottles of porter besides. And why don’t you invite Clothilde to join us? It’s time to celebrate.’

  As he left the house Henri felt his spirits rising. The prospect of a jolly evening with good food and strong drink was cheering, and his mother would be delighted with the invitation. Since her split with the widower Clothilde had rarely enjoyed much social company, and was very fond of M. Lavalle and Mariette. In fact, Henri had sometimes wondered whether his master had ever considered taking another wife – his mother would make the perfect candidate. She understood the silk business, could cook well and maintain a clean house and, despite the hardships and sorrows of her life, had kept her figure and her looks. But the old man was still grieving, it seemed. He never showed the slightest interest in other women.

  He strode up Draper’s Lane with greater confidence this time. Alerted by the tinkling of the bell, Miss Charlotte appeared immediately from a door at the back of the room.

  ‘Monsieur Vendôme,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘How delightful to see you again. What can I do for you today?’

  Henri pulled Anna’s sketch from his inside pocket, unfolding it onto the table in front of the window, smoothing out the creases as best he could.

  ‘And what is this?’ she asked, taking a seat.

  ‘It is a drawing of wild flowers, although not by me, bien sûr,’ he said. ‘I think it may make a good design for silk but I like to have your idea, please? Will it work, do you think?’

  She bent her head over the design, studying it with great care. ‘It is a very charming sketch: so much delicate detail, and such naturalism
.’ And then, fixing him with her dark eyes, she asked, ‘May I inquire who is the artist?’

  His cheeks burned. ‘I am sorry . . . I cannot tell.’

  ‘What a delightful mystery.’ A ripple of amusement flickered across her face. ‘It is a woman’s hand, I’d wager. But what I find so fascinating –’ she peered more closely at the paper ‘– are these.’ She traced her finger along the curving stems of bindweed that criss-crossed the sketch in a loose, informal trellis pattern around which the flowers and foliage were wound. ‘It has reminded me of something.’

  ‘Wait here a moment, would you?’ She reappeared a few seconds later with an illustrated magazine in her hands and sat down, flicking through the pages until she found the one she was seeking.

  ‘There, look,’ she said, handing it to him.

  It was a black and white etching: an extraordinary and apparently random collection of classical sculptures in a strange landscape of buildings, walls and roofscapes, with some anatomical drawings of the muscles of the leg on one side, and open books on the other. The scene had a deep border, which contained numbered boxes with drawings of flowers, candlesticks, faces – some quite comical – a pierced torso, a woman’s skirt swirling about her legs, and what looked like a set of stays in various curvy shapes.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘I have not before seen anything like it.’

  ‘You have heard of the artist William Hogarth?’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ Henri said. ‘Monsieur Lavalle has a print that he shows new apprentices: The Fellow ’Prentices at their Looms. He hopes it warn us about the dangers of idleness and drink.’

  ‘That’s the one. He has always had an interest in Spitalfields – he was born not far from here. His wife, Jane, has long been a customer of mine – such a charming woman and herself once an artist – and she recently had the goodness to bring me this magazine article about his new book, The Analysis of Beauty.’

  ‘It looks complicated.’

  ‘It is, rather, but Mrs Hogarth tried to explain it to me. Mr Hogarth has endured much criticism for being so arrogant as to try to define what constitutes beauty and good taste, but I think he has a point – that is what he’s trying to illustrate in this print.’

  ‘I will try my best to understand.’

  ‘In a nutshell, that the infinite variety of curved lines in nature are far more pleasing to the eye than the straight lines and angles that humans create,’ she said. ‘These classical sculptures are full of curves, because they follow anatomy. Nature is full of curves, like these flowers. The furniture maker Chippendale knows it – here are his turned-wood chair legs.’

  With rising excitement, Henri began to comprehend what Miss Charlotte was trying to tell him – that the curving plant stems criss-crossing Anna’s design were the very essence of that beauty. ‘And the curved lines in my sketch are just like that?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ she said, turning to the shelves along the back wall of the showroom. She returned with a bolt of cloth, and unfolded a short piece of beautiful, shimmering silk brocade, with a diamond pattern of lines infilled with floral designs.

  ‘This is not unlike your design, but it has one thing missing,’ she said. ‘The lines are straight, the angles are sharp, and they contrast uncomfortably with the naturalness of the flowers. Your design is so much more pleasing to the eye, because it is set on a framework of naturally curved stems – what Mr Hogarth called the serpentine curve.’

  He looked into her face and then down once more at the print, lost for words. When he picked up the sketch again, his fingers were trembling. ‘So do you think . . . that this will make a good design for dress silk?’

  ‘I think it will do very well indeed. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,’ she said, the smile lighting up her pale cheeks.

  ‘Thank you very much. You have filled my heart with happiness.’

  ‘It is my pleasure, Monsieur Vendôme.’

  ‘Please. My name is Henri.’

  ‘If you wish. In which case you must call me Charlotte,’ she said. ‘And, now that we are on first-name terms and I am not expecting my next customer for half an hour, will you take a cup of tea?’

  She invited him into the large, airy room at the back of the shop, one side of which was furnished as a parlour and the other curtained with white calico, behind which, he assumed, her customers might hide their modesty during fittings.

  She disappeared to put on the kettle and he was making himself comfortable, flicking through the fashion books on the table, when he heard the tinkle of the front doorbell. He cursed lightly under his breath – it must be a customer, whose arrival would surely put an end to this delightful sojourn with Miss Charlotte. Perhaps, had she not heard it, and he said nothing, the customer would leave of their own accord? But he began to worry whether the stranger might take advantage of being left alone for so long, perhaps being tempted to pick up a small bolt of cloth, a pair of gloves or a muff, and make off without payment.

  ‘Miss Charlotte,’ he called quietly. ‘I believe you have a customer.’

  She ran up the stairs, apologising breathlessly, and went through into the showroom, part closing the door behind her.

  ‘Oh, Miss Charlotte, I am so sorry to arrive early; the walk was so much quicker than I remembered.’

  That voice! Henri’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. ‘Are you engaged with another customer? I do beg your pardon. I can return later if it is not convenient.’

  ‘Please do not concern yourself, Miss Butterfield. I was making tea for a friend, but that can wait. You have come to collect your cloak, have you not? It is all ready for you. Just let me fetch it.’

  Charlotte re-entered the back room, went behind the curtains and returned with a dark blue velvet cloak with a ruby satin lining and a collar of black fur. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she mouthed to Henri, closing the door behind her.

  The voices were now muffled but still audible. He found himself holding his breath as he listened, eager to catch every syllable. Anna expressed her delight at the cloak, and how well it fitted her, congratulating the seamstress. Charlotte suggested that a muff of the same black fur as the collar might be a useful accessory and it seemed that several samples were produced because both women began to giggle as Anna tried to choose. Their girlish laughs sounded to his ears like handbells pealing for joy. How he wished he could be there to share their fun and not skulking behind the door like a thief, stealing crumbs of her presence through the sound of her voice.

  ‘This one is perfect. I’ll take it.’

  ‘Would you like to wear the cloak and take it today, or shall I arrange for it to be delivered?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘I shall wear the cloak, but I do not think it is cold enough for a muff today, do you? I might look a little silly wearing it. Perhaps you could wrap it for me?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll do it right away.’

  A long, agonising silence followed. And then a sharp, surprised, ‘Oh!’ and Anna’s voice, quieter now: ‘Excuse me, Miss Charlotte? Forgive me for prying. But could I ask you where this came from?’

  A further pause, and then Miss Charlotte said, quite casually, ‘Oh, that. It’s just a draft design someone was interested in. They wanted my opinion on it.’

  Henri felt his knees begin to buckle and he leaned back against the wall, taking deep breaths to try to dispel the giddiness threatening to overcome him. His sketch! He must have left it on the table beside the Hogarth print. How could he have been so careless?

  ‘It is very familiar to me,’ he could hear Anna saying. ‘May I be so bold as to inquire who that person is?’

  ‘Do you mean that you have seen it before, this design?’

  ‘Indeed I have, Miss Charlotte.’ After a moment, Anna began to laugh. ‘May I take you into my confidence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It is my drawing.’

  ‘Your drawing? But how, I mean where . . . ?’

  ‘It now belongs to a Fr
ench weaver, Monsieur Vendôme. He requested my permission to use it.’ The sound of his name brought Henri to his senses. He felt compelled to explain himself to Miss Charlotte – and also to Anna. For a few seconds he hesitated, his fingers on the handle and then, taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered the room.

  There she was, just a few feet from him, taller than he remembered, resplendent in her fine new cloak. The look of surprise on her sweet face nearly took his breath away.

  ‘Henri!’ she cried. ‘I mean Monsieur Vendôme. It’s you.’

  ‘Mam’selle Butterfield.’ He bowed deeply, the way he’d seen gentlemen bow when introduced to society ladies. His neck and cheeks were burning. She was blushing too, almost the same deep red as the lining of her cape. ‘Tout le plaisir est pour moi,’ he began, and then remembered to speak in English. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  ‘I did not know that you were acquainted with Miss Charlotte,’ Anna said, looking from one to the other in confusion.

  He rushed to explain. ‘She is an old friend of my master’s family and has been of much help to me,’ he said, glancing towards the seamstress, who was frozen in the act of wrapping her parcel, a piece of string still looped from her uplifted hand. ‘I was taking advice from Miss Charlotte: if your design is good for a dress silk.’

  Anna nodded, her face clearing. ‘Ah, it is becoming clearer now.’

  ‘She tells me the artist Mr Hogarth is very much favouring curves. He says they are the “essence of beauty”.’

  She laughed again, making his heart sing. ‘But mine are simply the stems of ordinary columbine,’ she said. ‘I just sketch from nature.’

  ‘But with such realism,’ Miss Charlotte replied. ‘That is a very special skill.’

  ‘My own poor skills will be much tested,’ Henri said. ‘To make the same in my weaving.’

  ‘I am sure that one of your experience will have no difficulty,’ Anna replied and, for a moment, their eyes met in the way they had at Christ Church: a look of mutual understanding so powerful that it felt as if he could see right into her bared soul. In that second, the rest of the world seemed to recede into unimportance.