The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  She smiled, while taking care not to meet his gaze directly. Although not handsome, not in any respect, he was certainly striking; the phrase her aunt had used—“a fine figure of a man”—seemed perfectly apt. But there was scant kindness about his eyes; they were too piercing, too closely set either side of that prominent nose, and the cheeks were sunken so that in a certain light he looked almost cadaverous. The Adam’s apple bobbed conspicuously in his long neck whenever he spoke.

  Nevertheless, he seemed to be well mannered, genial, and easy in conversation, and this confident demeanor, no doubt a consequence of his family’s comfortable position in society, did much to make up for the deficit of physical advantages.

  “I return to my earlier question,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “I hope you find our great city to your liking? There is so much to enjoy, is there not?”

  “I’m afraid I have seen little of your great city, as yet,” Anna replied. “But I understand that there is much to be learned and enjoyed. I look forward to making its acquaintance.”

  “Eloquently spoken, Miss Butterfield.” Charles laughed with a horsey snort. “But let me give you a warning. There are parts of London with which you must certainly avoid making any acquaintance. Not everyone in this city is as genteel as those in this drawing room, nor is it everywhere the peaceful place that I imagine to be the country town or village such as your own. Sadly, not all of us are so fortunate. There is a dark underbelly of crime and misery in London which a young lady such as yourself should hope never to have the misfortune to encounter.”

  Anna’s curiosity was piqued. Perhaps Charles was more compassionate than she had at first thought. “Pray, tell me more,” she said. “Why is there such misery? Why is nothing done to alleviate the suffering?”

  That startling snort again, more like a donkey this time. “What a charming sentiment. But do you not think that people should hold their fate in their own hands?”

  “To an extent—” Anna began, but he continued talking over her.

  “If people are lazy and indolent, surely they deserve nothing better? If they commit crime, they should expect to endure the appropriate punishment. Are we not responsible for ourselves in this life? Ours is a civilized society; we are not savages who give themselves up to the fates or depend entirely on some godlike figure to save us, I am sure you would agree, Miss Butterfield.”

  “As a matter of fact. I believe that it is the mark of a civilized society to care for its underprivileged members,” she said. “And, in the end, as Christians, we must surely have faith that it is only God that can save our souls.” Her words, spoken with some passion, dropped loudly into a room gone suddenly silent. Anna felt her cheeks reddening. It was not polite to disagree with someone on first acquaintance, she knew, but she found she did not care overly much. Charles crossed and recrossed his lanky legs uncomfortably as the general conversation slowly resumed. To his credit, the face that had fallen so blank with astonishment at her pronouncement now lit up with an amused smile.

  “I see you are a young woman of strong views, Miss Butterfield. I look forward to many further such lively debates. But”—he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in toward her—“perhaps not in front of Mama?”

  Anna found herself agreeing with a slight nod of the head and a raised eyebrow. She liked him better already.

  She’d been hoping to return the conversation to the subject of the German botanist and perhaps be invited to take a turn around the garden but, just then, the ornate silver clock on the mantel struck twelve times.

  “Midday already,” Aunt Sarah exclaimed. “We must not outstay our welcome, dearest Augusta. Our carriage will be waiting outside.”

  “Must you go so soon?” Mrs. H. said. “I was just going to suggest that Charlie and Susannah could show you the garden before luncheon.”

  Anna opened her mouth to plead for just ten more minutes, then closed it again, knowing that it would only irritate her aunt. Nothing in city society was spontaneous, she was learning; all must be carefully planned and executed, because anything unexpected might endanger the established order of things.

  “I am sure we would both enjoy that very much, but it is so terribly hot today and I regret we have matters at home to attend to,” her aunt was saying, standing to make her intentions perfectly clear and patting her skirts to ease out any creases. “When you return from Bath, perhaps.”

  Charles stood, offering his hand to Anna. She took it, embarrassed by the formality but knowing that it was expected. What she had not anticipated was that he would hold firmly onto her fingers and raise them, albeit briefly, to his lips. This forwardness made her feel mildly queasy. Already he was acting as though she owed him some kind of intimacy. The man is powerful, certain of his place in society, used to getting his own way, she thought to herself, not a person to get on the wrong side of. She would need to tread carefully around him.

  • • •

  At last the sermon came to an end, they sang a further hymn and were given the final blessing. Before she knew it, they were filing out of the church. Just as they reached the great doors to the outside, Anna caught sight of a familiar figure with dark hair tied back in a plait appearing from the organ loft stairs, but as she moved forward with the crowd, the figure disappeared from view. Then, as her aunt exchanged pleasantries with other members of the congregation, and she and Lizzie waited in the welcome shade of the portico, she saw him again, walking directly toward them.

  “Miss Butterfield,” he said, taking off his cap and making a small bow. “It is much pleasure to see you again.” He was still dressed in his plain brown work clothes with scuffed shoes and no wig.

  Lizzie cleared her throat loudly. “Anna, you should not talk to this boy,” she whispered.

  “Monsieur Vendôme, is it not? Did I see you coming down from the organ loft? Are you the organist?”

  “Hah! I do wish it so.” His laugh was infectious; she found herself smiling along with him, although she did not know why. “I am asked to help here because the under-beadle, the usual organ blower, is, how do you say it? Indisposé. They pay me a few sous.”

  “Organ blower?”

  “Who works the bellows. With big levers”—he held his arms out wide—“to make the pipes to sound. I do this at my church—the French church.”

  “I thought you were a silk weaver?”

  “So I also have strong arms,” he said with that teasing grin again. His gaze had locked with hers in a way that seemed to shut out the world around them.

  “But this is an Anglican church…surely…?”

  “I am Protestant too.” It was not said sharply but she felt a pang of guilt all the same. “The Lord does not know any difference.”

  “Of course. I am sorry…”

  Lizzie tugged at her sleeve. “Anna, we must go. Mother is coming.”

  “Good-bye, Monsieur Vendôme,” she called.

  “Au revoir, ma belle demoiselle,” she heard him say through the bustle of the crowd. “A bientôt.”

  7

  Drawing, like music, should be cultivated early. Its advantages are the habits of perseverance and occupation, which it induces; and the additional delight which it gives to the works, both of nature and of art.

  —The Lady’s Book of Manners

  My dearest daughter,

  My heart brims with happiness and I feel trebly blessed to receive not one, but two letters, as well as your charming drawing of the garden in Spital Square, which is already pinned above my desk. You have captured the perspective well, especially the windows at the back of the house, and the light and shade of the mulberry tree is excellently drawn.

  Your descriptions of Christ Church were so evocative that I could picture it easily. I dearly hope that I may come with you to that “numinous space” one day. Perhaps we could also visit Saint Paul’s Cathedral, if it is not too
far.

  Your new gowns sound beautiful, and I would love to see my girl all dressed up in her fine silks and milkmaid’s bonnet. Jane was green with envy when I read her this passage of your letter and I have already written to Sarah to thank her for her generosity.

  All is well here but for your absence, which leaves this house very quiet. It seems an age since you left even though only four weeks have passed. Your sister is doing her very best to look after the house, and we are muddling along with the help of Mrs. M. and Joe, who I can see trying to tame the garden outside as I write.

  My only concern, dearest Anna, is that I detect a certain loneliness in your words. Call it a father’s intuition. You write of spending time with your cousin Lizzie, and of taking tea with the Hinchliffe family, but there is no sparkle in what you write. As I have always insisted, there is no compulsion for you to stay if you are unhappy. But I would urge you to be patient: allow yourself time for settling in, and give it a further six months before making any decision. You have a questing soul and I am sure that there will be much to fascinate you in the city, once you get used to its ways.

  You say that the garden is the only outdoor space in which you can paint, which is unfortunate. I know how much it means to you, to observe and paint the natural world. Would you like me to ask my sister if she can help you find a solution?

  Write again soon. Your letters lift my spirits!

  God bless.

  Your loving father

  The letter only served to heighten Anna’s loneliness. The dear man! Although she had tried to conceal any hint of her unhappiness in her letters, he knew her too well. What she would give to see him once more, with Jane by his side.

  I know how much it means to you…the natural world. The words reverberated in her head. This lack of freedom, of space, of green plants and open sky made her feel like a plant deprived of sunlight. The only glimmer of hope was that she might be able to visit the Hinchliffes’ garden, but now they had left for Bath and would not be back until the beginning of September—a whole month to wait.

  One particularly hot morning, the walls seemed to bear in on her, crushing the breath from her body. She tried to read in the garden in the shade of the tree but, as the sun moved around, the heat became too much to bear. She went upstairs to read, but even with the casement at its widest, the air at the top of the house was even hotter and muggier than in the garden. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes.

  On hot days like these in Suffolk, once her chores were done, she might wander on the beach with Bumbles, throwing him sticks and perhaps even paddling in the sea. Behind her eyelids she could almost see the sun glittering like a million diamonds on the sea’s gently rippled surface, the delicate filigree of foam on the flat, wet sand left by the waves as they reached and receded. Sometimes she might persuade her mother and Jane to accompany her and the three of them would set out with a picnic and a large rug to spend the afternoon on the sand or in the dunes, gossiping and laughing, or quietly reading, relieved from the heat by the sea’s cooling breezes until the strength of the sun had abated.

  The memory caught in her throat—Mother is dead, and those days will never come again. She took a deep breath, trying to summon the salty, seaweed tang of the beach, but all she could detect was the heavy odor of sewage and horse dung which clung to the city on these hot, airless days.

  I can bear it no longer, she said to herself, feeling close to tears. If I don’t get into the fresh air, just for a few moments, I will suffocate.

  A sudden, reckless thought sprang into her head: What if she dressed as a maid, as she had that first day? If she could get out of the house without being noticed, she would be able to wander at will, for she knew no one and no one knew her. She tried to ignore the idea, but it became insistent, her imagination taking flight as she saw herself wandering freely through the market, with its stalls of brilliantly colored fruits and flowers.

  Earlier, at breakfast, her aunt had announced that she would be out visiting for most of the morning. The men were in the office as usual and Lizzie was at her studies. If she didn’t go now, the moment would be lost.

  Quickly, before she could lose her nerve, she removed her gown and took out her shabbiest linen dress and apron, tied an old cotton bonnet closely around her face, and placed her sketchbook and pencils under a handkerchief in a small basket so that, if challenged, she could simply claim that she had gone out to buy a few items of shopping. With her heart pounding in her chest, she slipped noiselessly down the three flights of stairs and out of the front door into the blinding sunlight.

  Despite the pounding heat, her heart lifted as she turned the corner out of Spital Square. She was free, walking unnoticed among the throng. The sense of anonymity she had found so daunting on first arrival now felt wonderfully liberating. She strode purposefully, keeping her head bowed so as not to meet anyone’s eye, holding her line along the pavement save when necessary to avoid the street hawkers and beggars who stepped into her way.

  The market was but a few streets away, so she was certain of not losing her way. Sure enough, the odors of rotting fish and putrid meat wafting on the air confirmed that she was growing closer. She rounded two corners of the market square until more fragrant scents indicated that she was nearing the area of fruit and flower stalls that she and Lizzie had discovered last time.

  Once again, as she entered through the arches and her eyes grew accustomed to the shade of the great hall, she found herself dazzled by the rainbow of intense colors, her nostrils assailed with sweet, delicate perfumes. She moved slowly along the aisle in a blissful daze, oblivious to the bustle of the market and the cacophony of stallholders’ cries. Her eyes were so busy that the rest of her body seemed to lose all awareness and all her earlier self-consciousness and fear of being discovered were forgotten.

  Her gaze was caught by a type of fruit she did not recognize. The woody-looking apples with rosy cheeks and a small coronet seemed plain enough on the outside but one had been cut in half to reveal inside a mass of juicy crimson seeds threaded with strands of bright yellow flesh.

  “Them’s pomegranates, miss. From Persia. Have a taste,” the stallholder said, offering her a handful of red seeds. “Just a shilling each to you, dearie. How many would you like?” Anna backed away, shaking her head, but he continued talking. “Or what about a guava? Now there’s a cunning fruit—looks like a lumpy, green apple but tastes like heaven. Or a grape, perhaps? Delicious little morsel. And not just good for making wine.” He pulled a couple of pale-green fruit from the bunch and popped one into his mouth, holding a small bunch out to Anna.

  “Our cook says all fruit should be stewed or baked to prevent sickness.”

  “Then your cook’s behind the times, miss, if you’ll forgive me for saying. These fruits would be ruined by cooking, as all fashionable folk know. Now, what everyone’s talking about are these,” he said, brandishing a bristly-looking thing which appeared to Anna more like a cudgel than a fruit. “Pineapple. Once tasted, never forgotten.”

  “How much is it?” Anna asked, thinking she might buy a present for her uncle and aunt.

  “Five shillings, miss, and cheap at the price, given that it makes a tasty snack for a right crowd of folks. This beauty has traveled all the way from the shores of Africa.” How ridiculous, Anna thought as she hurried onward. A fruit that costs the same as half a pig, or the weekly wage of a maid.

  She came upon a small stall that she had not noticed the previous time. It was a display of wildflowers so artfully arranged that she was instantly transported back to the country fields she knew so well. There were the tall, yellow bracts of fennel with their delicate hair-like leaf fronds, sprays of goldenrod in a sharper yellow, the pink of the open-faced mallow, and the modest heads of harebell in deeper purple. The desiccated stems of teasel, with their prickly seed heads, were entwined with columbine, elegantly coiling upward to their showy white flo
wers.

  Even more than the stunning variety of colors, both vibrant and subtle, what excited her artist’s imagination was the dizzying variety of forms: of stems, leaves, blooms, and seed heads. She found her fingers twitching to commit this beauty to paper.

  Tucked in a corner was a large bunch of one of her favorites, Solomon’s seal, surprising at this late stage of summer. She loved it not only for its graceful, arching stems and tiny, white bell flowers, but because of the biblical story attached to it. Indeed, her own mother would brew tea from the dried leaves as a healing drink whenever any of the family had suffered stomach problems or as a poultice for bumps and bruises.

  As her eyes wandered over the display, she was able to imagine, for a moment, that she had actually walked from the fields onto the sandy margins of the North Sea. Here was the sturdy sea lavender that forms a purple carpet over the marshes every July, the bold, upright stems of yellow tree lupin, the prickly sea holly with its delicately veined blue-gray leaves and thistly flowers, the white willow herb, its seed heads curling open into downy arcs, and large bunches of the tough, wiry heather that carpets the heathland around the village in such a dramatic display of purple and pink that visitors will walk from miles around to see it.

  A harsh voice close by startled Anna from her reverie. “You going to buy anything, missy? Two bunches of lavender for a penny.”

  Anna looked up into the eyes of a burly, ruddy-faced woman behind the stall. “Sorry. I was just looking.”

  “Lookin’ don’t make me a livin’, miss, if you get me drift? Just gets in the way of me other customers.”

  Anna muttered a further apology and went to take a step but her feet stumbled and she almost fell, just managing to save herself by putting a hand out to grab the side of the stall. She yelped as her skin brushed painfully against the heads of prickly thistles.

  “Whoops,” the stallholder cried, pulling her upright with a powerful hand. “Nearly had us over then, you did. Are you feeling a bit faint, miss? You’ve gone a funny color. Terrible hot today, ain’t it?”