The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  Sarah tried once or twice more: “Are you not well, Husband? Why not try some of Cook’s new sweet pickle with a small piece of cheese, my dearest?” And, later, “These peaches are perfectly ripe—they will rot if we do not have them tonight. Take just a small slice, won’t you, to keep up your strength?”

  Each time Joseph snapped back “Stop nagging, Sarah” or “Am I not allowed an evening without appetite?”

  William and the other boys talked about their work in language comprehensible only to themselves, her aunt was utterly distracted, and Lizzie seemed close to tears. Anna could not wait for the meal to be over.

  The ladies left the table and went to the drawing room and, shortly afterward, William and the other boys could be heard making their way downstairs—probably heading out to a coffeehouse, Anna thought enviously, as the front door slammed. Sarah took out her embroidery but sat with the frame in her lap, her gaze unfocused, making not a single stitch.

  At her mother’s urging, Lizzie went to the harpsichord and played a few notes but kept making the same mistakes and soon gave up. Anna opened a book and tried to read but the text danced in front of her eyes. All she could see was his curly handwriting: Your anser, yes or no? I hope very much yes.

  Even with both of the sashes raised, the air in the room was thick with unease, hot, and hard to breathe. Anna suggested a game of backgammon and Lizzie leaped eagerly to take the box from its shelf.

  “I won’t join you this evening, I am afraid,” Aunt Sarah said, replacing her embroidery frame in its basket. “I must attend to your father. He seems so very out of sorts.”

  Shortly afterward, raised voices could be heard from the next room. Anna and Lizzie tried to continue their game but soon gave up the pretense and sat in silence, sharing only an occasional raised eyebrow or troubled glance. The conversation was clearly audible through the cracks in the wainscot.

  First, her uncle’s deep rumble: “Leave me be, Wife. It is nothing for you to be concerned with.”

  “It is my concern if my beloved is unable to eat,” Aunt Sarah said more gently. “Please, tell me what ails you.”

  “It is nothing. I will be in better spirits come the morning.”

  “I must know, dear Husband. I will not rest until you tell me.” There was an extended silence during which Lizzie took Anna’s hand, seeking comfort. Then came a shocked shriek: “Whatever is this, Husband? Who sent it?”

  “The Mercers’ Company.”

  “I cannot believe my eyes. Are you sure it is meant for you?”

  “My name is on the envelope.”

  “It accuses you of illegal trading and failing to pay the proper import tax. Surely that cannot be correct?”

  Another long pause.

  “I shall die if you keep me in suspense like this, Joseph! Tell me they are mistaken.”

  “It’s a load of codswallop. Bloody outrageous.” The outburst caused both girls to flinch, his voice so loud and aggressive that even their own candles seemed to flicker in its blast. “What right do they have to interfere like this? It was William’s suggestion, and I agreed with him. It is my business, my right to decide what I buy and to whom I sell!”

  Sarah’s voice in response was surprisingly calm and measured. Anna could imagine how she was having to hold herself in, tighter even than her stays. “Should you not have cautioned William that paying the correct duty is the law of the land? Do you not have a reputation to consider, Husband?”

  “It is a ridiculous law, totally discredited. They say it’s intended to protect English weavers, but how can we obey the law when all society is crying out for imported fabrics?”

  “But what in heaven’s name is wrong with English silk, pray?”

  “Perhaps the French designs are more refined, but the real reason is because they are rare and difficult to get hold of—because of the law.”

  “That sounds like a stupid law, then.”

  “Which is why every mercer in the land ignores it. You want us to prosper, do you not, to move to a better area, take a large house in Ludgate Hill like the Hinchliffes? How can we prosper if we do not supply what the market demands?”

  “Then surely you should complain to the Company, dearest Husband? You are well respected among your peers; your voice should carry weight. Was your name not being whispered for Upper Bailiff in a year or so?”

  “I have complained, many a time, in council. But recently there have been petitions, and the pressure from the weavers is becoming difficult to ignore. They are afraid of riots.”

  “Surely they will not bow to such threats?”

  “Alas, there is little choice when the law is the law.”

  The conversation lapsed and then they heard a single sob, followed by low, conciliatory murmurs from Joseph.

  Lizzie whispered, “Is he in terrible trouble, do you think?”

  “I am sure it is just a mistake,” Anna whispered back, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “Your father is well respected. Nothing will happen.”

  “But if he has broken the law, will he go to prison? William, too? Whatever will become of us?” A tear fell onto Lizzie’s flushed cheek.

  “Hush, dearest,” Anna said, putting an arm around her. “As with all things, this will pass.” She remembered her father using these same words, attempting to comfort her when her mother was critically ill. Her mother died shortly afterward. Things did indeed pass, but that did not stop you mourning them.

  • • •

  She slept fitfully that night. In just a few moments of overheard conversation, the world seemed to have altered irrevocably. She had been growing accustomed to the family and the city and was feeling more secure—even if overly constrained—and looking forward to September, when there would be more social diversions as people returned from their country retreats. But the future that had felt so solid had become shifting, like standing on a riverbank when the ground which had felt unyielding underfoot might suddenly give way and leave you calf-deep in treacherous mud.

  Next morning at breakfast, her uncle announced that Sarah was suffering from a headache and would be staying in her chamber, at least until lunchtime. Betty had taken up a few morsels to tempt her appetite. Joseph and William ate quickly; they were going to a meeting, he said, and would be gone most of the day.

  When the two girls were left alone, she asked, “Did you manage to sleep, dearest Cousin?”

  “A little,” Lizzie replied. “I had a nightmare about Papa going to jail.”

  “I do not think that at all likely, dearest. Besides, do you not imagine that your father and William are even now on their way to sort out the matter?”

  • • •

  Anna could not decide how to respond to the French boy’s letter. Her mind vacillated wildly. One minute she felt it better to ignore the request, to avoid becoming involved in something of which her aunt would certainly disapprove; the next she was determined to find out more, even at the risk of incurring her aunt’s wrath.

  What remained unchanging was the feeling of overwhelming curiosity about this ordinary French journeyman whose face and physical presence seemed so improbably familiar to her. It was impossible to resist. Returning to her room after breakfast, she tore a sheet of paper from her sketchbook and wrote:

  Dear M. Vendôme,

  Thank you for your letter. I will be at Christ Church on Sunday and may be able to speak with you afterward, but only if my aunt is not accompanying me. I hope you will understand.

  Yours etc.

  Anna Butterfield

  She folded the piece of paper and tied it with a piece of ribbon. But how to deliver it? Somehow she had to find an excuse to leave the house. She returned downstairs to Lizzie’s room.

  “Is your tutor coming at ten o’clock as usual?”

  “Worst luck. I am too tired and do not feel a bit like doing
my studies.”

  “It will make a good distraction for you, and perhaps this afternoon we could do some painting? I will go with Betty to the market to buy some flowers, shall I? I cannot trust her to get the right kind.”

  “Should you not check with Mama?”

  “Let’s not trouble her as she’s feeling unwell. If she asks, I am reading in my room. Is that clear?” She fixed her cousin with a strong look and was rewarded with a nod of agreement.

  She ran downstairs to tell Betty about her plan, then up to her room to get changed into what she’d now come to think of as her “maid’s disguise.”

  • • •

  When they reached the market, she left Betty with strict instructions to spend a long time making her purchases and then to wait at the pie stall when the clock of Christ Church struck twelve noon. She wasn’t entirely sure where Wood Street was but remembered the direction in which the boy had gestured that day when they met on the steps of Christ Church, and surely it could not be far.

  She hastened to the farthest point of the market, on the corner of Lyon Street and Paternoster Row, and then headed up Church Street, past the huge, white bulk of Christ Church towering over the other buildings. The heat seemed even to have silenced the songbirds that usually sang from their cages, but through the open loft windows high above the street, she could hear the clack of countless looms—a sound that Lizzie had pointed out on their first day—as the weavers thrust their shuttles back and forth.

  Soon she found herself on a wider highway called Brick Lane, a bustling thoroughfare of carts and carriages, street merchants, temporary market stalls, beggars, shop fronts, inns, and chophouses. Hawkers were everywhere shouting their wares: “Eels, smelts, and whiting, fresh today,” or “Hats and caps! I buy, sell, or exchange,” but she was careful, as Lizzie had instructed her, never to meet their eyes.

  Picking her way between the traffic and the crowds, she marveled at how, in just a few short weeks, she had become accustomed to this extraordinary city, the throng of carts and carriages, the press of people, the smells of horses, rotting meat and fish mingling with wood smoke and tobacco. And yet she knew that just a mile away was open country: gardens, fields, and woods. If she kept on walking, she might find somewhere like home, colored in shades of green instead of the drab gray and brown of the city.

  She became so wrapped up in her thoughts that she found herself striding along as she would at home but, when she was next able to see through a gap in the streets, the spire of Christ Church appeared further away than she had expected, and rather more to the left than she had remembered.

  At last, after asking several people, she found her way to Wood Street. Since arriving in the city, she had been intrigued by the numbers boldly displayed on the door of every house. In the village, every building had a name that gave a sense of its occupants and its location: Five Bar Cottage, Butcher’s House, High Elms Lodge, Little Barley Farm. Just living at a number seemed so anonymous, so dull.

  Today, however, she discovered how necessary they were, when every house looked the same. And here it was, number 37, a tall, narrow house in a terrace of identical brick buildings, each with a basement window peering up to the pavement, three further stories, and the long dormer windows of the weaving loft stretching the full width of its roof.

  It looked respectable enough, she observed, although it seemed to lack a woman’s touch: there were no singing birds in the windows, no pots of flowers in the porch; the sills were dusty and the woodwork definitely in need of a lick of new paint.

  Glancing quickly around to check that she was not being observed, Anna ascended the few steps and was about to slip her note under the front door when it was opened from the inside by an elderly man, his graying hair tied into a plait under a red velvet cap.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je peux vous aider?”

  “I just wished to deliver this note, sir,” she stuttered, trying to gather her composure. “To Monsieur Vendôme.”

  A look of gentle amusement crinkled the corner of the old man’s eyes—a look that made her suspect that he knew exactly who she was and what the letter was about.

  “Do you wish to speak to him in person?”

  “Oh no,” she said hastily, “I do not wish to disturb him on a working day.”

  “Then may I say from whom the letter is come?”

  “I am Anna. Anna Butterfield.”

  “What a pretty name,” he said. “I shall make sure Henri receives it, Mam’selle Butterfield.”

  • • •

  Emboldened by the success of the morning, Anna planned her next move with meticulous care. After lunch she spent nearly four hours helping Lizzie create a reasonable likeness of the arrangement of wildflowers she had purchased in the market. Her pupil had only fleeting patience for careful observation, and Anna had resorted to drawing much of it before allowing her to apply the watercolor.

  When it was finished, they took it to Aunt Sarah—it would help distract her from her troubles, they agreed.

  “What a marvelous talent you have, dearest daughter,” Sarah cried, holding the painting at arm’s length to better view it. “If you do some more, we shall stage a showing of your work. And we had better get you a new dress for that, hadn’t we?”

  Lizzie clapped her hands with glee.

  Aunt Sarah swiveled her feet out of the bed and stood up. “I declare that your painting has so cheered me that I believe I shall be able to rise for supper.”

  Later, as Lizzie hugged her with genuine gratitude, Anna knew it was the moment to take the girl into her confidence. She explained about the letter in which the French boy had asked to see her. She could not refuse for fear of appearing rude, she explained, so she had agreed to meet him after church. On condition that Lizzie would be her chaperone this coming Sunday and agree to keep secret whatever took place there, Anna would continue the drawing and painting lessons until she deserved her new frock.

  Lizzie grumbled that it seemed a most unwise course of action, although she had no option but to agree.

  • • •

  That night Anna found it hard to sleep again, her head full of the day’s excitements and imaginings about the French boy’s mysterious words: a matter of importance.

  She had finally dropped off when she was woken by sudden, harsh shouts from the street outside; a sharp, shocking crash; and the ominous clatter of breaking glass. She heard her aunt’s terrified scream from the bedroom below, followed by a bellow of rage from her uncle, and then William’s voice, a panicky commotion of shouts, and the thunder of footsteps on the stairs.

  Peering into the darkness, she caught a glimpse of shadowy figures disappearing around the corner of the square. With shaking hands, she lit her candle, pulled on a shawl, and descended the wooden stairs. Aunt Sarah and Lizzie were huddled on the landing, Lizzie pale-faced and trembling, her mother restless with anxiety, occasionally leaning over the banister to shout instructions: “Call the night watchman!” “Have a care, Husband; they may be violent,” and “For Lord’s sake, do not go out into the street.” Raking her cheeks with her fingers, she wailed, “Dear God, whatever will become of us?”

  They descended to the drawing room and lit as many candles as they could find to dispel the shadows, which now hung full of menace, and waited in tense silence, listening for sounds of activity on the ground floor below.

  Eventually they heard the chirpy voice of the night watchman at the front door, her uncle’s deep tones, and then a clear, “Not to worry, sir. We’ll soon apprehend the scoundrels. Now, please go inside and lock all your doors and windows. I will return just as soon as we have any news.”

  As Joseph entered the drawing room, he seemed to be tucking something into his pocket. “Nothing to worry about, my dears. Thank heavens all our windows are shuttered, so it is only the fanlight above the front door that has been broken. William is puttin
g up a board to make it secure.”

  “Is this about the French silk, Papa?”

  Anna’s aunt and uncle exchanged glances.

  “I don’t know to what you are referring, Daughter, but if it is something you have overheard, it is all wicked lies,” Joseph blustered. “This is just stupid vandalism, so do not let me hear you repeating anything about this ever again, do you understand?”

  Anna had always been slightly afraid of him, his overbearing presence and intimidatingly loud voice, but now, for the first time, she could see that he was vulnerable. What would the consequences be for his business? And for those around him—his family and herself?

  Joseph took a deep breath and set his shoulders, regaining his composure. “Now there is nothing more to be concerned about, my dear ones, so I think you should return to bed for your precious beauty sleep. William and I will wait for the night watch to return.”

  • • •

  Next morning, after a scanty sleep, Anna woke early and was first to breakfast. Betty had laid eggs and bread on the table, and returned to the kitchen to collect the cheese and cold meats. As Anna went to take her place, her eye was caught by something tucked behind one of the candlesticks on the mantel. It was a scrap of dirty paper, once crumpled but now smoothed flat and folded in two. Cautiously, she moved closer, ready to turn away should anyone enter the room. She reached for the paper and unfolded it. The words, in large capital letters, were ominous and terrifying.

  THIS IS FOR SELLING ILLEGAL FRENCH SILK, SADLER. CEASE NOW OR YOUR HOUSE WILL BE TORCHED.

  10

  You cannot be too wary in the choice of him you would call your friend; nor suffer your affections to be so far engag’d, as to be wholly at his devotion. ’Tis dangerous trusting one’s happiness in another person’s keeping; or to be without a power to refuse, what may be your ruin to grant.

  —Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate

  The heat wave broke, heavy, gray-purple clouds rolling in from the west and blotting out the merciless rays of the sun for the first time in weeks. Soon enough, Henri could hear the rumbles of thunder, first in the distance and then drawing closer and closer until they seemed to be directly overhead. Then the rain started, drumming so loudly on the slates immediately above their heads that he and Benjamin had to shout over the noise.