by Liz Trenow
An uneasy voice in the back of his head told him that it was unwise to associate with these men, that he should return to M. Lavalle and tell him what was happening, but whenever he tried to leave he was pushed back into his seat and given another jug of ale. They were heading towards Bethnal Green when he began to feel light-headed and horribly unwell.
He recognised the pub sign just ahead: it was The Dolphin, where Guy had brought him to sign the petition for the Book of Prices. Spying an alleyway, he excused himself, saying he would join them shortly. Turning the corner, he glimpsed in the gloom a man apparently coupling with a whore. But he could not wait.
‘Filthy sod,’ the man said.
‘Cul pourri,’ Henri growled. ‘Vas-tu la boucler?’ Shut your mouth, fat idiot.
‘What’s the frog bastard saying?’
The voice was somehow familiar, but Henri was too focused on his own need to concern himself further.
‘You don’t want to know,’ the woman said, resuming her attentions on the man’s lower regions. But he was not to be distracted, detaching himself and lurching drunkenly towards Henri with his manhood flapping and his fists raised.
‘Stand up and fight, French worm.’
As Henri tried to stand, his stomach rebelled and he could hold it no longer. The man retreated to safety, cursing even more viciously.
Henri was straightening himself up and wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve when they heard the unmistakeable sound of hobnailed boots ringing on the cobbles. A volley of gunshots close by left his ears ringing. He cowered to the ground with his head in his hands, uncaring of his own filth, holding his breath and praying that he was not discovered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man and woman scuttling away down the alley.
From inside the pub there were desperate shouts: ‘The Runners, the Runners,’ followed by the heavy tramp of boots on a stairway, the violent splintering of a wooden door and more gunfire. For several minutes it seemed the Cutters were trying to fight back but they were clearly outnumbered. As suddenly as it had started, the firing stopped and the shouts evaporated like smoke.
Looking upwards, Henri could see, silhouetted against the sky, men leaping from windows across the gap between the buildings. Gathering his senses, he realised that he had just a few precious moments to escape before the Runners came out of the pub. But, as he turned, his heart tumbled into his boots. At the end of the alley, just a few yards away, was a Guard staring directly at him, pointing his pistol.
‘Come out with your hands up, or I’ll shoot you dead,’ he said.
19
Every member of the fair sex ought to know how to sew, knit and mend, and cook, and superintend a household. In every situation of life, high or low, this sort of knowledge is of great advantage.
– The Lady’s Book of Manners
As the coach rattled its way out of the city, cobbled streets gave way to the graded gravel of the highway. Now, out of the window, Anna could see woods and fields, instead of houses.
She had been in London barely six months, but it seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she had travelled this road in the opposite direction. She swallowed back the tears that threatened as she recalled her first fateful hours in the city; how she had fainted in the heat and been rescued by a stranger apparently speaking in tongues, a stranger she now knew to be Henri.
All that was over now, of course. His letter had made it perfectly clear. The pain of rejection still stabbed like a knife deep in her heart, from which she would never recover. There were times when she felt that her tears would never stop, that she would never again find happiness. She’d pored over his previous notes again and again, obsessively, until the paper had worn into fragments. His face, and most particularly his dark eyes smiling at her in that confidential way of his, appeared in dreams from which she would awake, sobbing, knowing that she would never see them again.
She could not dare to venture out into the streets for fear that she might see him, reopening the agonising wounds once more. She could not even bear to approach the showroom downstairs at Spital Square because the smell of silk reminded her so painfully of the man with whom, she now had to acknowledge, she had fallen deeply in love.
Of course, she realised how unrealistic it had been to imagine that they might ever become friends, let alone lovers. The social divides in the city were simply too rigid and clearly defined, and she was not strong enough to challenge them. The notion that she’d entertained of becoming a silk designer seemed equally distant and fanciful, the whim of a naive girl.
And how close she had come to accepting Charles, whom she did not love. She could see now that only the unexpected conjunction of circumstances – unfortunate for her uncle and aunt, but fortunate for her – had reprieved her from a life of unhappiness.
She was now desperate to leave London, to put behind her everything that reminded her of what might have been. When she’d announced that she was going home for Christmas, her aunt had appeared almost grateful. Only Lizzie showed genuine sorrow. ‘Whatever shall I do without you?’ she wept. ‘Everyone is so gloomy all the time, except for you. My life will be a misery if you leave. Promise me you will come back in the New Year.’
She’d written to her father to say she was returning to Suffolk just for a few weeks but in her heart she knew she would stay, probably for good. She would let fortune take its course; she would probably remain unmarried, living a peaceful and impecunious life in the country. Yes, she might be bored, but surely she would find something to entertain her brain? Perhaps she could do a little tutoring, of drawing or reading, and bring in a few extra shillings to support her father and little Jane.
She gave a deep sigh and turned her eyes to the passing fields. Arriving in the city for the first time she had felt like a stranger, but it was curious how the countryside now appeared equally surprising to her eye. Of course it was in the grip of winter, the trees leafless and stark against a grey sky and rainwater lying in silver stripes along the furrows of brown fields.
The faces around her were uniformly pale and featureless, their exchanges exclusively in the English tongue. On the streets of Spitalfields she had become accustomed to hearing so many languages: most commonly English or French, naturally, but also Spanish, Gaelic, Dutch and German, and many others she could not recognise. Here, she could understand every word and the conversations were so mundane that overhearing them became irritating and wearying.
After lunch the passengers wrapped themselves up against the cold and settled into slumber for the four-hour leg to Chelmsford. Anna allowed her eyes to close. Over the past few days, events had moved so fast that she’d barely had time to take stock, to consider her own feelings.
At Chelmsford she knew just what to do, requesting a simple meal of bread, cheese and pickle to be served in her chamber, and ordering an additional candle. Somehow the lumpy bed seemed more bearable this time. Just one more night and tomorrow I shall be resting deep in my own feather mattress at the vicarage, she thought to herself, with the sound of the waves in my ears.
It was well after sundown when they reached the town square at Halesworth, but by the light of the fading sky she could see her father and sister waiting in the smithy’s horse cart, bundled up against the cold, ready to transport her the final few miles to the village. Never had a sight been so welcome. Moments later, they were in each other’s arms, laughing and crying in their joy with Bumbles running in circles around them, barking with excitement.
‘Dearest girl, how we have missed your sunny smile. Let me look at you,’ Theodore said at last. ‘What a smart cloak, my dear. And that beautiful warm muff. My sister has treated you well. But your journey must have been wearying. Let us get you home at once. We have stew in the pot.’
‘And it’s nearly Christmas,’ Jane said, holding tight to Anna’s arm. ‘We’ve got presents!’
‘Remember, we must not tell until it is time to open them,’ her father said, mock-sternly.
Jan
e snuggled up to Anna on the hard seat of the wooden cart, inside their shared blanket. The dog settled on top of their feet like a hot water bottle and Theodore squeezed in beside them. Despite a light rain wetting their faces Anna realised that, for the first time on her long journey, she actually felt warm.
This is what I’ve missed, she thought to herself, the comfort of human contact. Apart from Lizzie’s occasional embraces, and the press of Miss Charlotte’s professional fingers during fittings, she had barely touched another human being for the whole six months. There had been the briefest of contacts with Charlie, of course, but also – her heart lurched at the memory – the moment when Henri held her after she fainted on the street, and the time when he took her hand to help her down the ladder from the weaving loft. But no prolonged embraces, no proper, comforting cuddles. She pressed herself closer to her sister and father as the cart jolted its way along the muddy, rutted track home, and found herself grinning with happiness.
Despite her exhaustion and a bellyful of mutton stew, she did not sleep well. They had insisted she use the chamber normally reserved for visiting curates and the like: ‘You are our special guest now, my dear,’ her father had said. ‘You must have your privacy.’ She did not want to be a guest, special or otherwise. She wanted everything to be as it had always been. But of course I cannot turn back the clock, she thought to herself. They have grown used to living without me, just as I have grown used to the city. With the simple passing of time everything changes, and everyone is changed.
She tossed and turned on the soft mattress, missing the lumpy horsehair of her London garret. At some time before dawn she crept along the corridor into the room where, for nearly all of her childhood, she had shared a double bed with her sister, the feathers plumped up into a bolster between them.
As she climbed beneath the covers Jane stirred, turned over and moved across, pressing her body against Anna’s, just as she had as a very small child. Then she resumed her usual snoring, as soothing and familiar as a lullaby. Anna slept, undisturbed, well into the morning.
The next couple of days were spent reacquainting herself with the village. Walking down the short main street with her sister took a full couple of hours because everyone wanted to stop and ask her about life in the city. Some of their questions were plainly absurd, such as ‘Made your fortune yet?’ or ‘Have you met our new king?’, and she deflected with a smile the thinly disguised enquiries about her romantic prospects: ‘I expect you’ve met many fine young folk there?’ She did not care if the rumours ran wild, as they always did in a village. They would soon discover that she was staying for good.
During these conversations, she noticed a new relationship between Jane and the other villagers. Her own absence seemed to have given her sister greater confidence to speak to almost anyone, her place more clearly defined in this secure little world. Her vocabulary was also greatly improved. For their part, people appeared to be more solicitous of Jane’s welfare than before, as though they had taken on the mantle of ensuring her wellbeing and safety while her big sister was away. More than once, Anna was told, ‘Jane’s definitely coming out of her shell.’ Sometimes they added, ‘Been doing her best to look after your dear father, that she has, poor love.’
At home she learned that, in fact, although Jane had been doing the shopping, some basic cleaning and laying of fires, she had not been managing at all with the laundry and the cooking. Despite the generosity of neighbours, who often left on the doorstep home-made bread, cooked dishes and prepared vegetables, her father had been obliged to employ a cook and housemaid on weekdays. She dared not ask him where he found the money. More than likely he was just slipping further into debt in the hope – now vain, as it turned out – that his elder daughter would marry into wealth and gain the means to pay them off.
She had forgotten how chill was the wind at the coast, how the rain came at you sideways straight off the North Sea, how the mud of the paths clagged to your shoes until it was barely possible to drag them onwards. But in brighter, calmer moments, she and Jane managed some walks through the marshes and along the beach, collecting driftwood for the fires and ‘hagstones’ – flints with holes worn through them from centuries of abrading by the forces of the sea – to hang by the door for good luck. Her father disapproved: ‘Just stupid old superstitions,’ he said. So they had always compromised by hanging them at the back door so that they could not be seen from the street.
Perhaps because of her physical weaknesses Jane was often weary and it was her habit to retire early, leaving Anna and her father at liberty to talk long into the night. During one of these conversations she told him about the troubles facing the family in London, much of which had been brought about, as far as she could see, by William’s gambling and theft.
‘It’s so cruel,’ she said. ‘I am sure Aunt Sarah is ignorant of the problems he has caused because Uncle Joseph has covered up for him. But perhaps this is for the best. All she really wants is for her family to be happy and for the business to prosper sufficiently so that they can move to a larger house, preferably on Ludgate Hill, and get Uncle’s portrait painted by Mr Gainsborough.’
‘Gainsborough? Goodness, they are becoming puffed up! That would cost a penny or two.’
‘He’s such a nice man, Pa.’
‘You met Mr Gainsborough?’
‘We went to his London studio and he talked about his painting and how there’s going to be a new Society of the Arts, to hold exhibitions. He even suggested that women might be able to show their work.’
‘Women such as my talented daughter? And why not, indeed?’
She blushed at the memory of it. ‘He was just being gracious. Still, I am very unlikely to meet him again – all their plans for such things are now lost, at least until Uncle Joseph can recover his reputation. But Aunt Sarah is so very low; it’s as if she has no reason for living.’
‘I am sure things will turn out for the better before long. But what about William? What is he doing to make amends?’
‘I think he has stopped the gambling, at least,’ she answered. ‘And he has been working hard to sell more of their fabric stocks, to pay off the fine. But he says much of it is out of fashion.’ They sat in silence, gazing into the flames of the fire for several minutes. ‘London society is beastly, you know,’ she went on. ‘Because of the scandal, the whole family has been ostracised.’
‘And what about you?’
‘What about me?’
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘You know what I am talking about. Has this horrid affair damaged your reputation, too? Is this why you were so keen to come home?’
‘I wanted to be here for Christmas. I told you.’
‘Of course I hoped you would come, but confess that it was a surprise. I’d have thought there would be many more exciting diversions in the city during the festive season. Young men, for example.’
‘There was a young man, a lawyer, from another mercer’s family who used to be best friends with Sarah and Joseph. I wrote to you about him, I believe? He even proposed, Pa! But he dropped me like a hot potato after the scandal emerged.’
Her father leaned across and placed his hand on hers. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.’
‘Please do not be concerned for me, for I am not the slightest bit sorry. He was nice enough, but I did not love him. He gambles, too, according to William. And we had nothing whatsoever in common.’
‘Have you absolutely made up your mind not to return? What about this friend you wrote of, the seamstress?’
‘Miss Charlotte. Yes, I shall miss her,’ Anna sighed. ‘She’s such an inspiration. Never married, I think, or perhaps widowed; it seemed indelicate to inquire, although she has family – I met her nephew. But what I most admire is that she runs her own shop, and earns an independent living from her seamstress work. All the society ladies patronise her but at the same time she seems to have the freedom to socialise with whomever she pleases.’
‘Whereas, reading between th
e lines of your letters, am I to understand that you did not?’
Anna nodded. ‘I was not even allowed to leave the house without permission and certainly not without a chaperone. I couldn’t bear it, being so constrained. It’s no life for someone like me.’
Another evening, he asked, ‘And what do you think now, my free-spirited daughter, should be the best kind of life for you?’
She looked up at him sharply. ‘What prompted that?’
‘You talking so glowingly about your friend the other night.’
‘It would be wonderful to find a way of making an independent living, without having to get married for it.’ As she spoke, she recalled the powerful display of affection between Charlotte and her nephew, and then remembered the sadness in Charlotte’s eyes when he had gone. Being single, without children, seemed also to have its drawbacks.
‘You do not wish to be married?’
‘Of course I do, but to someone I love, not just because they are wealthy and speak the right . . .’ She stopped herself.
‘The right what?’
‘The right language, I was going to say.’
His forehead furrowed. ‘So who is it that speaks the wrong language?’
She explained how a quarter of all people in Spitalfields were French and that many were weavers, suppliers to merchants like her uncle.
‘I have heard of the French Protestants who came over because of Catholic persecution. There are some in Norwich, I believe. But you have met some of these people? How fascinating. Theirs must be a very different kind of culture from ours?’
‘Not at all. They are just like us. They work and eat and sleep and go to church, and dream about their futures, just like we do. They love growing flowers and keeping songbirds, and they are the best craftspeople in London.’ She found herself speaking just a little too emphatically, too fervently, and saw the understanding dawning on her father’s face.