by Liz Trenow
‘You know some of these French, I think? In fact, I would go so far as to guess that you are rather fond of them, or is it him?’ She couldn’t help smiling – she had forgotten how acutely her father seemed to understand human motivation.
And so the story came out: about the market stall, and the sketch, and the French journeyman weaver who bought it as the design for his master piece, which he was currently weaving. About how Charlotte had encouraged him because she loved the design which had reminded her of Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty, and believed it would go well with fashionable society ladies. And how she, Anna, had imagined that she might, one day, learn enough about weaving to become a proper silk designer, and make some kind of living, but that her visit to Henri’s master’s house and the weaving loft had ended in disaster.
Her father listened without speaking, as she rambled through the story. When finally she stopped, he thought for a few seconds.
‘It all seems to make perfect sense to me, my darling. And furthermore –’ he paused again, rubbing his temple as though considering whether it was wise to continue ‘– it sounds to me as though you are a little in love with this Henri? Am I right?’
Hearing her father say his name was just too much: her chin began to wobble and a tear escaped down her cheek. He gathered her into his arms.
‘My dearest, I am so sorry. I did not wish to upset you. What is making you so sad? Were your affections not reciprocated?’
‘I believed that they were, Pa,’ she sobbed. ‘At first. But it is impossible. He is a French journeyman and Aunt Sarah is trying to transform me into a society lady.’
‘And if she knew you were actually in love with this lad, she’d literally explode with horror?’
The vision was so irresistible that it made Anna chuckle, even through her tears. Her father returned to his chair, and she took a few deep breaths, drying her face with his handkerchief.
‘Well, do you know what?’ he said at last. ‘I am your father, and it is up to me to decide who is worthy of your hand, not Sarah. After Christmas, we shall go to London and make a visit to this Henri fellow and his master. How’s about that?’
‘It’s no good, Pa. In his last note he told me that any further friendship is impossible. I just have to accept that there is no future in it.’
Christmas Eve came and went, much as always. It was a time of happiness and sorrow, the joy of traditional rituals – bringing green branches into the house, cooking and eating the goose and the pudding, the exchange of gifts followed by midnight mass and a glass of mulled beer – tinged with sadness because this was the first year her mother had not been here to share them.
The following day, as was their habit, they invited all the lonely souls of the village into the vicarage for luncheon. The wide oak dining table that usually served as a storage space for her father’s books and papers was cleared and polished until it gleamed; every item of cutlery, every plate, saucer, cup and tankard in the cupboards was brought out, dusted and shaken to dislodge unwary spiders, bottles were opened, left-overs and other contributions of food unwrapped and set out upon it, every chair and stool collected from the nether regions of the house placed around it. Logs were brought in, fires were set and candles lit against the gloom of a heavy sky which threatened never to brighten.
Partway through the meal, Anna found herself with a moment free to cast her eyes around the room. The assembled company, twenty-two in all, were mostly elderly ladies in their Sunday best, white hair carefully coiffed and caps stiffly starched, and a few widowers, uncomfortable in wigs which almost certainly never left their boxes from one end of the year to the other. There was the young, sallow-faced widow failing to keep control of her four unruly children, a couple of unmarriageable bachelors and a motley assortment of other unfortunates, the blind, the deaf, and the weak of mind.
Observing the way they helped and took care of each other, she was struck by how comfortable everyone seemed, how mutually supportive, how unconcerned with difference. Of course there were the snobbish people; people who, on this day, would be supping the wine of the De Vries family, the landowners up at the great hall. But the rest of us just mix along, regardless of income or status, she thought to herself. And isn’t society the better, the stronger, the healthier, for it?
And yet, in the same moment, she found it impossible to imagine herself here in ten, twenty or fifty years’ time, seeing the same group of people, doing the same things each day. Living here at the coast, in a small fishing village at the end of a single five-mile track, provided infinitely wide and varied geographical horizons but the narrowest of social prospects; no marriageable young men, little means of earning a living, few opportunities for meeting interesting people and, most crucially, nothing ever surprising or unexpected.
On the first day of January the snow began to fall and continued falling for thirty-six hours. Unless there was a sudden thaw, the village would be cut off for several days at the very least. No one was greatly concerned: this was an almost annual event, and every household stored additional supplies of food, fuel and candles against the prospect. While her father resumed his usual studies and writing, Jane and Anna spent their time sewing – many of the curtains and much of the bedlinen were in urgent need of repair – cleaning out cupboards and taking brisk, slippery walks. Jane could not read, but she enjoyed card games and draughts, which Anna usually allowed her to win.
At last, after about five days, the weather warmed and the snow turned to slush, so that now they saw an occasional cart passing down the street. Around lunchtime, the post boy arrived with mail that had accumulated in the office at Halesworth.
Anna picked up the most recent newspaper, and went to sit by the fire. As she turned the pages, a tiny headline caught her eye. The report beneath it was terse.
SPITALFIELDS JOURNEYMEN TO BE HANGED
Three French journeyman weavers were today sentenced to hang for breaking and entering, damage to property and threats to murder. All are linked to the Bold Defiance, a group turning to violent means to demand rates outlined in the so-called Book of Prices.
Just then, her father came over with a letter. ‘Tucked in with my mail,’ he said. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Whoever could it be?’ she said, examining the writing on the fine vellum, folded and sealed. It was a female hand, but not Lizzie’s, nor her aunt’s. ‘I am not expecting news and I barely know anyone in London well enough to exchange letters.’
‘Oh, open it, do,’ Jane said. ‘Stop wasting time wondering.’
7th January 1761
Dearest Anna,
Forgive me for troubling you, but I bring unhappy news. Henri is in gaol, wrongly arrested in connection with the Bold Defiance. There are fears he may face the death penalty. M. Lavalle is desperate. I thought perhaps you might know someone who could help? I know you would if you could. Please come, if you can, as soon as possible?
Yours affectionately,
Charlotte
Terror gripped her chest. Surely such a gentle soul would not turn to violence? And then, like an icicle piercing her heart, she recalled the placard at that rally where she’d spied his friend Guy from the carriage so long ago: Bold Defiance: fair pay for all. If Guy was involved with this group, might Henri might have been, too?
She checked the date of the newspaper. 10th January: three days after Miss Charlotte wrote her letter. Could Henri be one of those three, already tried, found guilty and sentenced to hang?
20
The greatest achievement for a man, the one he must aspire to at all times, is freedom: for an apprentice, freedom from indentures; for a journeyman, the freedom to become a Master and employ his own men; for a Master, to achieve the ultimate, the Freedom of the City.
– Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
Each morning, for a split second before fully wakening, Henri could imagine himself to be in the warm truckle bed beside
the kitchen in the basement at Wood Street.
Then he would hear the clang of a metal door, the howling and cursing of his fellow inmates or a volley of violent threats from a guard, and harsh reality would crowd in. He’d become accustomed to the smells that, at first, had made him gag, and since M. Lavalle had brought in extra clothes and blankets, the biting cold had become almost bearable. But the noises of the prison were the one thing he could not grow used to.
He had been arrested by the Runners and, despite his protestations of innocence, had been charged with damage to property and causing affray. Now here he was in gaol, awaiting trial. He’d been told he would likely be sentenced to transportation or even, because the authorities were so determined to crack down on the weavers’ protests, the death penalty.
Not even in the most difficult times of his life, after his father and sister had drowned and his mother seemed to have lost the will to live, could Henri remember feeling such darkness in his soul. In just a few hours of drunkenness, he had let down everyone who had supported him: his mother, M. Lavalle, Mariette, Miss Charlotte – and Guy, of course.
Several times he’d tried shouting his friend’s name in the chance that his cell was close enough to hear, but all he got in response was the curses of other prisoners. When he asked the guards if he could be taken to see his friend, they were without pity: ‘Think you can curry favour, in your position? Get lost, French vermin.’
M. Lavalle visited and said they were trying to raise bail. But it seemed the authorities were refusing to countenance it, adamant that the prisoners should be held as an example of how all vestiges of the rebellion were being crushed. Three people had been injured that night, he learned, and sixteen arrested – some of them were in the communal cell in which he spent his first few days. The phrase ‘death penalty’ had been widely whispered among the group, but he tried to banish it from his mind. M. Lavalle did his best to reassure him. Henri was of good character and had an unblemished record; surely the mere keeping of company with a group of protestors was not a felonious crime?
Friends from the French church brought him food, drink and clean clothes, claiming they would soon see him released. They even raised funds for him to have a single cell, for which he was tearfully grateful. At least he was now free of the threat of assault by other prisoners and could enjoy some privacy when visitors arrived. It also meant that he had a chance of keeping his blankets and clothes from being stolen.
A few days later a legal clerk arrived at the prison, uneasy and out of place in full wig, smart silk coat and pristine white leggings. He admitted he was not a fully-fledged lawyer and that, although he was an expert in French law, he would have to take advice on any variations there might be with the English statute. For an hour he quizzed Henri about the events of that night: who he was with, what precisely he had witnessed, what was done and said by whom, and the exact timing of when he had left the group before they went into the pub.
Henri was still so shocked at his situation that his brain had gone to pulp; he could remember barely anything. He spent the next few days trying to focus, writing down everything he could recall so that when the lawyer returned a few days later, a far more coherent picture seemed to emerge. The clerk thought that if they could locate the man or the whore, and if either agreed to testify, they could prove that he was not with the group inside The Dolphin, and there was a chance the charges might be lifted. It sounded to Henri as though his freedom, even his very life, hung upon the testimony of two strangers who were unlikely ever to be traced. The encounter left him feeling more depressed than ever.
His moods swung violently between long spells of abject misery and despair and shorter spells of cautious optimism. He had already survived so much in his life, and his good friends would surely make certain that he did not suffer the same fate as Guy. At night, however, the doubts crept into the cell like a malign vapour, and he would find himself shaking with fear.
The visits from his mother and M. Lavalle were the hardest to cope with. The look of sorrow and disappointment in his master’s face and Clothilde’s expression of raw concern were almost unbearable. They tried to cheer him but his sense of shame was so great he could barely bring himself to respond, let alone be comforted. M. Lavalle said that Mariette had badgered him to allow her to come, but he’d decided it would be too upsetting for her. Instead he produced a note, which Henri opened later; he broke down into sobs as he read her words: ‘N’oubliez pas que je suis toujours ton amie,’ she wrote. Never forget that I am your friend.
He was pleased to see the apprentice Benjamin, who arrived with a parcel of Cook’s special meat pies and some fresh apples, two bottles of beer and a long woollen scarf that Mariette had knitted for him. After he’d sated his appetite, Henri quizzed him for news of the family, but the usually garrulous boy seemed reluctant to expand on what he already knew. ‘They are well,’ he said. ‘We are working all hours to cover the work. The Master lends a hand when he can and even the drawboy is learning to weave. Mariette sends her love.’
‘Any news of Guy Lemaitre?’ Henri asked. ‘Has his appeal come to court yet?’
In the gloom of the cell, he could see Benjamin’s face blench. ‘This is what I have come to tell you,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘The Master said I must. It is bad, I am afraid. Your friend was executed early yesterday morning – hanged with the others outside The Dolphin.’
Although Henri had been half expecting this dread news, the harsh reality of it took several moments to sink in. The beer and meat pie he’d consumed with such gusto a few moments earlier seemed to curdle in his stomach. Guy, his friend, hanging on the end of a rope? The boy he had grown up with, sat with at school, played childhood pranks with, chased girls with, who in dark times had been there for Henri, and Henri for him . . . now dead?
‘Apparently, the Bold Defiance men attacked the Guards who were building the gallows and so the authorities set the hour of the hangings to early morning, to try to avoid further violence. As soon as the news got out there was an enormous crowd assembled.’
A vision of the prisoner he’d seen on his way to Tyburn flooded Henri’s mind: the man so defiant and smiling even when he was chained on the cart to his own coffin and pelted with rotten eggs and cabbages. The last time he’d seen Guy he was a pale, almost wraith-like figure who had fainted into the guard’s arms in court. How must he have been on the day of his hanging? It was unimaginable.
He swallowed hard, fighting back tears. He barely dared to ask: ‘Did you go?’
Benjamin nodded. ‘M. Lavalle made me, because he needed to stay with Mrs Lemaitre. They had to get the doctor for her, she was that distraught. He told me I must go to pay my respects on behalf of the family.’
And now the hardest question of all: ‘Was his death quick?’
‘I believe so, although the crowd was so great I could barely see. The Bold Defiance planned to storm the carts before they reached the gallows, but there were so many soldiers that they couldn’t get past.’ He shook his head, as though scarcely able to believe what he’d witnessed.
‘By the time they managed to break through and cut them down, they were already dead. They’ve brought Guy’s body back to his mother, so at least she will be able to bury him properly.’
As Henri listened, a great chill crept through him, and he began to shiver violently. The vision was just too awful to contemplate.
‘That’s not all,’ Benjamin said, grimly determined to complete his duty of witness. ‘Then they tore down one of the gibbets and set off with it, carrying it piece by piece, chanting all the while and waving their torches, till they got to Crispin Street. They set the gibbet back together right there, outside Chauvet’s house, and smashed his windows and threw their torches inside to set fire to the place. It was mayhem. Then of course the soldiers arrived and arrested dozens more. They say the prisons are over-flowing with journeymen now.’
Later, after Benjamin had left, Henri gave himself up to his misery,
curling up on the floor, weeping and holding his hands over his ears, trying to block out the ghastly image of the pale, terrified figure of his friend as he went to his end. If only he’d done more to help him, to give him a little dignity and comfort in his last days. He deeply regretted failing to help him more generously, or of intervening sooner when he’d begun to tread a wayward path.
Now it was too late.
He had been in gaol nearly two weeks, had heard nothing from the legal clerk and was beginning to despair when M. Lavalle arrived with news.
‘The Company Committee met last night,’ he said, taking his seat on the bench beside Henri. ‘To review the submitted master pieces.’
‘And?’
‘As you know, in the first instance, the works are presented anonymously, to prevent bias. Yours was considered to be of the highest quality, exceptional in fact, according to certain members. “Without a doubt this weaver should be admitted,” they said. Congratulations, my boy.’
From the expression on his face, Henri sensed that bad news was to follow. ‘What are you not telling me?’
The old man cleared his throat. ‘When they came to write down the list of new Freemen, they went into a long discussion about whether they could admit someone who was currently facing criminal charges. They had to consult the statute books but, in the end, they said they would suspend admission until . . .’
‘What does it matter, anyway, when my life is already lost?’
‘Please do not lose heart, my boy,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘The legal fellow is working hard to find people to testify to your innocence and good character. We shall get you out of here soon. Imagine, you will not only be freed, but also a Freeman.’
Henri tried to smile for his master, to be glad and grateful, but somehow the idea of a double prize felt even more of a distant dream. He could not rid his mind of the conviction that his life was effectively finished.