The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  Most of all she missed her freedom. She was desperate to find out more about her new surroundings, to explore the streets, and, particularly, to find subjects to draw and paint. With the cook’s help, she created a still-life tableau on the dining table with plates, mugs, a loaf of bread, and some peaches, but she had to deconstruct it each mealtime and was never able to replace it again in precisely its original form.

  She sketched the rooftop view from her bedroom window, struggling to find the perspective of all those angles; she painted Lizzie in her favorite yellow damask gown, head bent over her tapestry frame. Figures were always so difficult and the light in the house, with its heavy furnishings and small windows, was often poor—it made her appreciate all the more those masters of the internal space, the Rembrandts and Vermeers, whose paintings she had seen reproduced as engravings at Miss Daniel’s house.

  But what really fired her artistic imagination were growing things, trees and flowers: the way that light and shade played through the tracery of their stems, the leaves in shapes of endless variety and infinite shades of green, and the colors of their petals, sometimes subtle, sometimes bold.

  The last watercolor she had made before leaving Suffolk was of the green coils of columbine that twined unchecked along the vicarage fence, and she had been pleased with the painting’s strong sense of movement, accented by brilliant-white flowers with their delicate, pink stripes. Her father had lavished praise, and requested that he could hang it on his study wall, “to remind me of you when I am lonely.” She had already decided that her first London drawing—when she was satisfied that she had created something good enough—would be sent to him for a birthday or Christmas present.

  Here in the London house, there was barely any opportunity to observe growing things. All was stifling stillness and propriety, and her aunt’s instructions were uncompromising: she was not allowed to venture into the streets without being accompanied by Lizzie or Betty, and without a clear purpose and timetable. But Lizzie was at her studies each morning, and Betty had her work to do, so, more often than not, Anna was left to her own devices.

  The heat wave persisted and she found herself nodding off even during daytime. It felt as though her life was slipping away.

  Aunt Sarah had promised that when she was “properly attired,” they would go visiting. Anna dreaded the thought of such formalities, of pretending to be someone she was not, of making polite conversation with strangers, but anything would be better than this isolation and confinement. So when her aunt received a note from Miss Charlotte announcing that the gowns were ready for collection, she was surprised to find that the dread had been overtaken by a sense of excitement.

  It was just a short walk—no call for a chaise, her aunt said—but the day was warm, and by the time they reached Draper’s Lane she was starting to perspire uncomfortably.

  The sign above the door read: Miss Charlotte Amesbury, Costumière. Through the glass of the single bow window, she could see what appeared to be a group of fashionably attired ladies and gentlemen, but as they entered the front door, she realized that the figures were dressmaker’s dummies. The gowns were beautiful, but so adorned with gathers, ruffles, and lace that she wondered how anyone could manage their daily lives wearing them. She prayed that the dresses that had been made for her would be simpler in design.

  Alerted by the tinkle of the bell attached to the front door, Miss Charlotte appeared almost instantly from a back room, welcoming Anna and her aunt with a broad smile.

  “Good day, Mrs. Sadler, Miss Butterfield. All is ready for you, if you would like to come through.”

  She seemed so confident and energetic that Anna struggled to put an age to her—certainly no older than thirty-five, she thought to herself. Yet she wore no wedding ring. How had this woman managed to set up such a successful business, apparently on her own account, and remain so independent? At their previous meeting she had warmed to Miss Charlotte’s calm, composed manner. Now, she wondered whether she might become an ally, or even a friend, in this strange and confusing world.

  They were led through to a large, airy room at the back of the shop, where the boards were covered with a worn carpet. One side of the room was furnished as a modest kind of parlor with four chairs, their seats upholstered in faded blue velvet, set either side of an empty fireplace. The other corner was curtained all around with long hangings of white calico.

  “Do take a seat, please,” Miss Charlotte said. “Can I get you something cool to drink?”

  As they waited, Anna noticed a miniature dressmaker’s dummy on which hung a tiny coat in dark-plum damask silk with velvet collar and cuffs and pearl buttons.

  “What a beautiful jacket,” she exclaimed. “He is certainly going to be a very proud little fellow, wearing that.”

  The seamstress, engaged with the pouring of elderflower cordial into three glasses, paused and looked up. “Yes indeed,” she said quietly, her pale cheeks coloring. “It is a present for his seventh birthday. I hope he likes it.”

  After a further brief exchange of politenesses, Aunt Sarah said, “We had better proceed, Miss Charlotte. Show us how you plan to transform my country bumpkin niece into a fashionable young lady about town.” She added, almost as an aside, “Quite a challenge, I grant you.”

  Anna felt her cheeks flush. Why was her aunt so determined to undermine her confidence? Miss Charlotte, quick to notice, took her arm gently and steered her away toward the curtained area. “It is my pleasure to dress such a charming young lady,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Are you ready, Miss Butterfield?”

  Behind the curtains, carefully hung from wooden hooks and covering every part of the walls, was an array of gowns and petticoats in brilliant colors. Like an artist’s palette, Anna thought. On a long side table were displayed a number of undergarments: white cambric chemises, stays, hoops, lace-edged cuffs and pinners, and two embroidered stomachers.

  “If you put on this new chemise, then I will help with the stays and hoops,” Miss Charlotte whispered. “Don’t be concerned. It is not so complicated.”

  She turned away discreetly while Anna undressed. As the garments came off, one by one, she felt vulnerable, as though she were stripping off her old self to become a blank canvas. She took one of the chemises from the table and slipped it on gratefully. The feel of the soft, white cambric, so fine that it could be feathers stroking her bare skin, was comforting, and she found the courage to clear her throat gently, indicating her readiness.

  She went to put on the new stays with the opening to the front, as was her habit, but Miss Charlotte shook her head and reversed them so that the laces were at the back. “You can lace them to the front when you are dressing yourself,” she whispered, “but just for now we must give you the perfect shape.”

  She pulled the laces so tight that the whalebones cut sharply into Anna’s sides, and she felt she would never be able to breathe properly. At the same time, she noted with some alarm how her small breasts were pushed into a new and surprisingly voluptuous shape. After the stays came the hoops, hung from straps at the shoulders and tied in place at the waist, forming modest oblongs projecting from her hips on either side.

  “It is my belief that hoops will become smaller yet,” Miss Charlotte said, busying herself with the ties at the side. “They may go out of fashion entirely before long, but we have provided you with two sets for the moment. You will find them very convenient for pockets.” She handed Anna a pair of simple cambric pouches with tapes to be tied around the waist so that they lodged beneath the arch of the hoops on either side.

  There followed a petticoat in plain cream silk, ruched along the hem and tied at the waist, and then Miss Charlotte announced that they were ready for the gown. From two of the hooks, she took down a confection of flounces in pale-yellow damask.

  “I think you will be pleased with this one,” she said. “This is the robe à la française, as we di
scussed. Sackbacks are so terribly elegant and absolutely à la mode.” Anna had never worn yellow before—she thought it made her skin look unhealthy—but Miss Charlotte assured her that it was absolutely the latest thing because it gave her a “fashionable pallor.”

  She had to admit that the gown fitted beautifully, the pleats at the back falling in a gentle drape from her shoulders, the sleeves tight to just below the elbow, the bodice wide until it met at the front with panels of reversed fabric that Miss Charlotte called “robings.” She used tiny hooks and eyes to link the front panels together right down to the waist and then tied flounced linen cuffs edged with lace to each elbow. Below the waist, the petticoat peeked through the edges of the skirt at just the right height to show Anna’s toes.

  “It is the done thing to show your feet these days,” Miss Charlotte said. “You will have a pair of embroidered slippers to match the dress, but the heels should not be too tall, since you already have a certain height.”

  Finally, after much tweaking and primping of the fabric around the shoulders, waist, and sleeves, she pronounced the gown properly fitted.

  “Will I have no stomacher, no modesty piece? Or a handkerchief or shawl, at the least?” Anna whispered, placing her hands over the expanse of flesh still remaining uncovered by the bodice. A new, deep cleavage had appeared between her breasts, which seemed to protrude in the most immodest manner.

  “Covering up is for ladies of more mature years and might appear prudish or frumpy on a youthful frame.” Miss Charlotte smiled. “Please do not worry, Miss Anna. Let us see what Mrs. Sadler thinks.”

  As the curtains were pulled back, Aunt Sarah’s plump face, so grumpy in repose, lit up with a brilliant smile.

  “Oh, my dearest niece,” she breathed, fanning her perspiring face. “What a wonderful transformation. All the young men will be queuing up to make your acquaintance. We shall be fighting them off, shall we not, Miss Charlotte?”

  How shall we fight them, Anna wondered, whoever “they” are? Perhaps with the ax used to cut firewood at home, or the hatchet Father employs with such savage vigor against invading bramble bushes? The memory made her smile.

  “What sort of hat should she have, do you think?”

  Miss Charlotte disappeared behind the curtains and returned with a round box. “My milliner has provided us a few samples. She says, and I agree, that it should be nothing too elaborate for a lady of Miss Anna’s youthful charms.” She took out a straw bonnet with a narrow brim. “This milkmaid style is all the rage these days, perhaps you have noticed.” She placed the hat on Anna’s head, tilting up the brim in a jaunty fashion at front and back, and tying the ribbon—a delicate cream the same as the petticoat—in a loose bow at her chin. Anna smiled self-consciously, wondering at the strangeness of a fashion combining yards of luxurious, costly silk with a simple countrywoman’s hat.

  She turned obediently as they discussed her figure: the shape of the bodice, the cut of the sleeves, the length of the hems, and found her mind distracted by a powerful childhood memory of cardboard dolls that could be dressed in a range of cut-out dresses, hats, and shoes. She and Jane would delight in ensuring that the outfits were as bizarre and uncoordinated as possible, with clashing colors, matching nightgowns with fancy hats or galoshes with ball gowns. Right now she felt like one of those paper dolls, a one-dimensional toy, with a fixed grin and rigid, outstretched arms.

  She felt a sudden urge to grab her old clothes and run back to Suffolk and her father. It may have been, as he’d been so careful to explain, a life without prospects, but at least it was her own life, not a life in which she was merely the plaything of others.

  Instead, she took a deep breath. “It is a beautiful gown, Miss Charlotte. Thank you so much.” The seamstress acknowledged the compliment with a graceful nod and the hint of a smile. “You have been so generous, Aunt Sarah,” Anna went on. “I shall write to my father this evening and tell him how kind you have been.”

  There was a second formal gown in cream with stripes and brocaded flowers in a more usual, more modest style, and two further gowns for daytime or at home, softer and more flowing in pale-blue lustring and sea-green alamode, worn without hoops, and for which Miss Charlotte had provided a pretty white apron and matching neckerchief to cover the décolletage. There were three round caps, too, in lace-edged cotton, with lappets that could be pinned up or tied beneath the chin, and four sets of white silk stockings.

  • • •

  The following morning, at breakfast, Aunt Sarah announced that she and Anna had been invited to take tea with Mrs. Hinchliffe, mother of William’s best friend, Charlie.

  “Can I come too?” Lizzie cried.

  “Of course not,” her mother said. “You will be at your studies, as usual.”

  “That’s so unfair. Their house is so pretty, and Susannah plays so well on the harpsichord.”

  “Your time will come, when you are eighteen, Elizabeth. Now”—Aunt Sarah turned to Anna—“I think it is a day for the cream brocade and that charming milkmaid bonnet with the cream ribbon. Miss Charlotte is so clever, don’t you think? It’s perfectly fashionable and has the advantage of not adding to your height.”

  “Charlie will be paying attendance, I don’t doubt,” William said with a knowing smile.

  “If he is not at his studies, Mrs. Hinchliffe said.”

  “Oh, he’ll be there. I’ve already primed him. Anyway, he’s always boasting about how little time he’s required to spend in chambers.” William took a large bite of pie and went on talking with his mouth full. “He’ll make a good catch for you, Coz. Definitely his own man, lives for the moment and all that. His mother’s rich as Croesus. Proper old money.”

  “Don’t be so vulgar, Will,” his mother chided. “Gentlemen do not discuss money in mixed company.”

  “But isn’t that what this is all about? Finding a rich husband for our country mouse? Just don’t mention Purple Velvet.”

  Anna lowered her gaze toward her lap, trying to contain her fury. It was enough having to deal with her aunt’s caustic comments, but whatever had she done to deserve William’s constant sniping?

  “Purple Velvet?” Lizzie asked.

  “Nag that Charlie lost his shirt on at the weekend,” William explained. “Dead cert, he said, and he persuaded a few others to back it, too. Not me, though, luckily. He nearly got beaten up yesterday evening.”

  Uncle Joseph, who had been harrumphing quietly throughout the conversation, weighed in sharply. “That’s quite enough, William. Finish your breakfast and get downstairs to work.”

  • • •

  “Well, look at you now, Miss Anna,” Betty said, standing back after fixing the bonnet with hatpins. “Quite the young lady about town, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “It’s so hot with all these layers on,” Anna complained, fanning herself. “I’ll never survive.”

  “You won’t have to walk. Madam has asked me to call a carriage.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Just a couple of miles, as far as I know. But she likes to make an impression, does Mrs. S.,” Betty added with a discreet wink.

  Anna was greeted with an approving smile from her aunt, and as they stepped outside, ready to cross the pavement into the carriage, two gentlemen passersby stopped in their tracks, doffing their caps. How extraordinary suddenly to be so noticeable, she thought to herself, all because of a new dress.

  The windows in the carriage were open, and the coach clattered along the cobbled streets attracting a refreshing breeze. As they passed the end of Paternoster Row, she spied the spire of Christ Church, white and elegant, soaring into the sky, reminding her that since her arrival in London, two Sundays had already passed. She had barely any faith in God these days but attending the weekly service was almost second nature. After church was the most sociable time in the village, when everyone gathered to exchange
greetings or engage in longer conversations. Here in the city, it seemed, there were few such opportunities for informal mingling. She would ask if she could go next Sunday, she decided: it might offer a moment of freedom, or even the opportunity of meeting other people.

  The coach paused for a moment, giving her time to observe the scene in the street alongside. A gaggle of about thirty men, working men she assumed from their apparel, were gathered on the pavement around a single figure standing on a box. Beside him, another man held up a handmade placard with rough lettering: Bold Defiance, it read. Fair pay for all.

  Red-faced, his mouth wide open in a shout, the man on the box was attempting to make himself heard above the clamor of the street. From time to time his audience raised their arms above their heads, chanting and punching raised fists.

  “Ruffians,” her aunt said. “Best to pull down the blind, dearest. Don’t want to draw attention, do we?”

  Just as Anna reached up for the cord, one of the men turned and looked her directly in the eye. The face was familiar, and she imagined for a split second that he recognized her, too. Then she realized: it was Guy, the French boy who had been with Henri the day she arrived and again at Spital Square.

  She wanted to wave, to call out and ask after his friend, but it was impossible with her aunt beside her. The coach began to move and, as the chanting faded into the distance, Anna was left wondering whether perhaps Henri had been there, too, with that group of angry young men. But why? She longed to meet the French boys again, to find out what the gathering had been about, but such a meeting seemed so unlikely, now that she was being groomed into a proper society lady.

  She gave a quiet sigh, straightened her back, and looked forward, readying herself for the ordeal of “taking tea.”

  5

  What I shall next recommend to you is frugality, the practice of which is expedient for all, but especially for such as you, who are, like the silkworm, to spin your riches out of your own bosom. The neglect of Trifles is suffering a moth to eat holes in your purse, and let out all the profits of your industry.