by Liz Trenow
• • •
She invited him into the large, airy room at the back of the shop, one side of which was furnished as a parlor and the other curtained with white calico, behind which, he assumed, her customers might hide their modesty during fittings.
She disappeared to put on the kettle and he was making himself comfortable, flicking through the fashion books on the table, when he heard the tinkle of the front doorbell. He cursed lightly under his breath—it must be a customer, whose arrival would surely put an end to this delightful sojourn with Miss Charlotte. Perhaps, had she not heard it, and he said nothing, the customer would leave of their own accord? But he began to worry whether the stranger might take advantage of being left alone for so long, perhaps being tempted to pick up a small bolt of cloth, a pair of gloves or a muff, and make off without payment.
“Miss Charlotte,” he called quietly. “I believe you have a customer.”
She ran up the stairs, apologizing breathlessly, and went through into the showroom, part closing the door behind her.
“Oh, Miss Charlotte, I am so sorry to arrive early. The walk was so much quicker than I remembered.”
That voice! Henri’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. “Are you engaged with another customer? I do beg your pardon. I can return later if it is not convenient.”
“Please do not concern yourself, Miss Butterfield. I was making tea for a friend, but that can wait. You have come to collect your cloak, have you not? It is all ready for you. Just let me fetch it.”
Charlotte reentered the back room, went behind the curtains and returned with a dark blue velvet cloak with a ruby satin lining and a collar of black fur. “I won’t be a moment,” she mouthed to Henri, closing the door behind her.
The voices were now muffled but still audible. He found himself holding his breath as he listened, eager to catch every syllable. Anna expressed her delight at the cloak and how well it fitted her, congratulating the seamstress. Charlotte suggested that a muff of the same black fur as the collar might be a useful accessory, and it seemed that several samples were produced because both women began to giggle as Anna tried to choose. Their girlish laughs sounded to his ears like handbells pealing for joy. How he wished he could be there to share their fun and not skulking behind the door like a thief, stealing crumbs of her presence through the sound of her voice.
“This one is perfect. I’ll take it.”
“Would you like to wear the cloak and take it today, or shall I arrange for it to be delivered?” Charlotte asked.
“I shall wear the cloak, but I do not think it is cold enough for a muff today, do you? I might look a bit silly wearing it. Perhaps you could wrap it for me?”
“Of course. I’ll do it right away.”
A long, agonizing silence followed. And then a sharp, surprised, “Oh!” and Anna’s voice, quieter now: “Excuse me, Miss Charlotte? Forgive me for prying. But could I ask you where this came from?”
A further pause, and then Miss Charlotte said, quite casually, “Oh, that. It’s just a draft design someone was interested in. They wanted my opinion on it.”
Henri felt his knees begin to buckle, and he leaned back against the wall, taking deep breaths to try to dispel the giddiness threatening to overcome him. His sketch! He must have left it on the table beside the Hogarth print. How could he have been so careless?
“It is very familiar to me,” he could hear Anna saying. “May I be so bold as to inquire who that person is?”
“Do you mean that you have seen it before, this design?”
“Indeed I have, Miss Charlotte.” After a moment, Anna began to laugh. “May I take you into my confidence?”
“Of course.”
“It is my drawing.”
“Your drawing? But how… I mean where…?”
“It now belongs to a French weaver, Monsieur Vendôme. He requested my permission to use it.” The sound of his name brought Henri to his senses. He felt compelled to explain himself to Miss Charlotte—and also to Anna. For a few seconds he hesitated, his fingers on the handle, and then, taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered the room.
There she was, just a few feet from him, taller than he remembered, resplendent in her fine new cloak. The look of surprise on her sweet face nearly took his breath away.
“Henri!” she cried. “I mean Monsieur Vendôme. It’s you.”
“Mam’selle Butterfield.” He bowed deeply, the way he’d seen gentlemen bow when introduced to society ladies. His neck and cheeks were burning. She was blushing too, almost the same deep red as the lining of her cape. “Tout le plaisir est pour moi,” he began, and then remembered to speak in English. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“I did not know that you were acquainted with Miss Charlotte,” Anna said, looking from one to the other in confusion.
He rushed to explain. “She is an old friend of my master’s family and has been of much help to me,” he said, glancing toward the seamstress, who was frozen in the act of wrapping her parcel, a piece of string still looped from her uplifted hand. “I was taking advice from Miss Charlotte: if your design is good for a dress silk.”
Anna nodded, her face clearing. “Ah, it is becoming clearer now.”
“She tells me the artist Mr. Hogarth is very much favoring curves. He says they are the ‘essence of beauty.’”
She laughed again, making his heart sing. “But mine are simply the stems of ordinary columbine,” she said. “I just sketch from nature.”
“But with such realism,” Miss Charlotte replied. “That is a very special skill.”
“My own poor skills will be much tested,” Henri said. “To make the same in my weaving.”
“I am sure one of your experience will have no difficulty,” Anna replied and, for a moment, their eyes met in the way they had at Christ Church: a look of mutual understanding so powerful that it felt as if he could see right into her bared soul. In that second, the rest of the world seemed to recede into unimportance.
Miss Charlotte was rummaging through a drawer behind the counter. “I have something here that might inspire you even further, Monsieur Vendôme,” she said, pulling out a small piece of silk and unfolding it onto the counter. “It is the remnants from a gown I made a long time ago from French silk—legally imported, I might add.”
It was a bold pattern of large, blowsy, and brightly colored roses and peonies, surrounded by luxuriant foliage on an eggshell-blue background. The designs were powerfully realistic.
“I can see what you are thinking,” she said. “This would not be considered fashionable today, but it demonstrates a technique the Lyonnaise weavers were using in those days—I think it was first used by a designer called Jean Revel—which allowed them to introduce shading. It was called points rentrées. Perhaps your Monsieur Lavalle will know of this, Henri?”
He lifted the silk close to his eye, regretting that he did not have with him the magnifying lens they used to scrutinize the weave of fabrics. He recognized the technique: warp and weft threads of different shades were interlocked to create gentle, subtle edges to flowers and leaves, rather than the more usual method which created a defined line. He had seen it in the designers of an earlier age—Leman and the like—that he had studied during his apprenticeship, but evidently it had been abandoned as the fashion wheel turned to smaller, less brightly colored floral designs.
It was as though a key had turned, unlocking the mystery. All he needed to do was to figure out how to rig the lashes and simples on his loom to recreate Revel’s innovation on a much smaller scale, which would reproduce the shading effects of Anna’s graphite pen.
“Miss Charlotte, vous êtes merveilleuse,” he said. “You have answered my problem.”
“What is it you have seen?” Anna said. “Do explain.”
“I will try my best,” Henri said.
“Then l
et us all listen in comfort,” Miss Charlotte said. “Miss Butterfield, we were about to take tea in the parlor. Do you have a few minutes to join us?”
13
No young lady should go to a ball without the protection of a married lady or an elderly gentleman.
—The Lady’s Book of Manners
My dearest father,
Today has been the happiest of my life so far in London, for I have made a friend. Her name is Charlotte, and she is a dressmaker—or more correctly I should call her a “costumière,” for that is what is says over the door to her shop. She has made all my gowns most beautifully, and today I collected the most delicious velvet cloak with a fur collar and muff to match. I shall be the warmest girl in town!
She is really the most admirable person, independent and unmarried as far as I can tell and conducting what seems to be a very successful business all on her own account. Today, when I went to collect the cloak, she invited me into her parlor for tea, and we had the most delightful conversation about art and fashion.
What I most admire is that she appears unconcerned regarding social status. Despite being in “trade,” as Aunt Sarah would say, Charlotte speaks to everyone: society folk and working folk, men and women, in the same straightforward way without being patronizing or obsequious. It is as if, in her mind, all classes and both sexes are perfectly equal. How wonderful it would be if we were all to be treated so.
Please do not mention this to Uncle or Aunt for I am sure they would not approve. But I am so delighted with my afternoon that I simply had to share it with someone.
Oh, and Aunt Sarah will doubtless write to you regarding an invitation I have received to a ball at the Inns of Court, by a young man called Charles Hinchliffe, a lawyer. She thinks he is the perfect match for me. He is interesting, but I feel little for him, so although she is very excited about this, please do not hold your breath for news of any developments in that quarter!
Give Jane a big hug for me, and tell her that I will write to her again very soon.
Your loving daughter,
Anna
“You look like the cat that drank the cream, Anna,” Lizzie remarked at supper, and Aunt Sarah added, “You certainly have a bloom to your cheek this evening, Niece. Have you received some good news from home, perhaps?”
Anna managed to deflect their questions without lying. “It is just that I am so delighted with my new cloak, dearest Aunt, and the muff that I cannot help smiling with the pleasure of it. Thank you so much for your great generosity.”
Her letter told only one part of the story, of course: her joy was twofold. She had genuinely enjoyed getting to know Charlotte better, and felt an increasing respect for her independent way of living, her confident manner and strength of character. She certainly would like to count her as a friend, although she had no idea whether the affection would be reciprocated.
But by far the larger part of Anna’s elation, the part that made her smile for no apparent reason and caused a catch in her breath when she thought about it, was the serendipity of meeting with Henri. It felt like an unexpected and joyful gift, to have had the opportunity of being able to converse naturally with him, as an equal, without guilt or fear of being found out.
The content of that conversation had been fascinating and challenging: they started with a discussion about Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty, with Charlotte giving her opinion on how it might apply to the world of fashion. This was followed by Henri’s explanation of points rentrées and how he hoped to set up his loom to achieve the realism of her sketch. When Anna ventured to mention Mr. Ehret, they both seemed to have heard of him and were impressed that she had actually had the chance to discuss botanical drawing with such a respected master.
Throughout all of the discussion, Anna struggled to tear her eyes away from Henri’s face. She was simply captivated by him: the intense chestnut brown of his eyes, his olive skin and his broken English, his modesty, and his easy sense of humor. She was enthralled by the breadth of his knowledge and obvious confidence when talking about his work.
When he spoke of his master and of his widowed mother, it was with such love and respect that she immediately wanted to meet them, to tell them how fortunate they were to have such a young man in their lives. Now, she felt his absence as an almost physical ache and yearned to see him again, to get to know more of him and to share more of herself with him.
And yet, she remembered with a sudden, unpleasant jolt, there really was no future in such a friendship. She was here in London to find a wealthy husband, and it was madness to entertain fancies about a poor journeyman silk weaver, a Frenchman at that. Besides, in the eyes of her aunt, she was practically engaged to Charlie Hinchliffe. Sarah was convinced that the invitation to the ball, which was to take place in just three days’ time, was a declaration of intent and a proposal would shortly follow. Anna could not decide what she felt about such a prospect.
A part of her was flattered because Charles was undoubtedly what her aunt called “a good match.” Before long, he would surely be a man of some means—so long as he could curb his gambling habits—and would keep his wife and her dependents in some comfort. But, try as she might to reassure herself, she could imagine no joy in such a life. She would become mistress of the house and an elegant lady, an ornament in Charles’s life to charm his wealthy clients and aid his rise in society. How does any woman manage to endure such a pointless existence? she thought. I would surely die of boredom within a year.
But what else could a woman do when men seemed to hold all the power and all the purse strings? If only she had a skill with which she could earn a living, like Miss Charlotte. But apart from keeping house, doing laundry, and cooking meals, she had none, and who wanted to be a housekeeper for the rest of their lives? She could paint, of course, and improve her technique on the harpsichord, but there was no living in those aptitudes save perhaps becoming a governess, and that always seemed such a sad and lonely existence. She felt like a rat caught in a cage, tearing desperately and fruitlessly at the wire mesh walls, refusing to accept the inevitable.
Finding no solution, she decided to put the problem to the back of her mind and concentrate on more appealing matters.
For a start, she needed to address her concerns about the sketch for Henri. At Charlotte’s showroom, she had seen it with new eyes and had become uncomfortably aware of its shortcomings. How poor it was, how amateur, how sloppily observed and hastily executed. She could instantly note its artistic flaws, the lack of symmetry, the unrealistic shapes of the leaves, the way that the stems were the same width as they curved from the bottom to the top of the page, not narrowing as they would in nature. How much better it could have been had she applied the lessons Mr. Ehret had since taught her.
Before leaving Miss Charlotte’s shop, she had asked Henri whether he would allow her to do further work on it, to make the floral figures even more naturalistic, perhaps to add some color wash. He had protested that it was perfectly lovely as it was but had then concurred, so long as she did not change it too much. She promised to supply a new version to him within the week.
The following day, after breakfast, she retired to her room and sat at the table by the window, attempting to recreate the sketch. With each try, her confidence in its artistry diminished. What on earth is wrong with me? she berated herself, scrunching another wasted sheet of paper into a ball and hurling it at the wall. I have no talent, no inspiration, no ability at all. What a mess. It’s hopeless.
She flung herself onto the unyielding mattress and closed her eyes. A sequence of images flickered on the inside of her eyelids: of the lines and curves flowing from Mr. Ehret’s pencil, of the raindrops gleaming, and of shades of red and orange spilling over the autumn leaves. She was in the Hinchliffes’ garden again with Mr. Ehret’s voice in her ear exhorting her to “look, look, and look again.”
The bells of Christ Church, pealing midd
ay, woke her from the reverie. She realized what she had been doing wrong and what she now needed to do.
After lunch, she asked Betty to accompany her to the market. There, she returned to the wildflower stall—relieved to discover that the ruddy-faced woman had been replaced by a man—and spent nearly two shillings on bunches of sea lavender, yellow tree lupin, sea holly, and heathers of different hues. Returning home, she carried up to her room a large pitcher of water and arranged the flowers into a display that lifted her heart, calling to mind the late-summer days in her village on the edge of the sea.
Now, she said to herself, I can do justice to Mr. Ehret’s advice.
By the end of the following day, despite frequent interruptions from Lizzie, she had recreated her original sketch with its sinuous trellis of bindweed stems but with much more detail in the botanical depictions: the veining on leaves, the shadows on a curled petal, flowers in bud, flowers in full glorious display, and flowers creased and drooping as they faded, and raindrops nestling in the apex of a stalk. Even a small, black beetle that fell out of the wildflower arrangement onto her table made an appearance in the finished drawing.
Now she applied watercolor, using her old box of paints brought from Suffolk and, when this had dried, added chalk shading and retraced some of the lines with ink for added emphasis.
She propped the finished painting onto the dresser and sat back on the bed to study it from a better distance. It is good, she thought to herself, much improved, the color and shading producing greater depth and realism. Finally satisfied with what she had produced, she rolled it into a cylinder, wrapping another sheet around it for protection, and attached a label with Henri’s name and address. Now she just had to find a way of getting it delivered without prompting awkward questions.
• • •
The day of the Inns of Court ball was looming and Anna had begun to fret about her lack of accomplishment in dancing. In the family library she had discovered a book entitled The Art of Dancing and had done her best to follow the complicated floor diagrams that demonstrated through a series of curved lines and arrows where one’s feet should go. But without the music, she found it impossible to gain any sense of the timing or rhythm or, indeed, what her arms and hands should be doing. Each time she tried, the task appeared more hopeless. Although she could not bring herself to admit her failings, it seemed she had already been detected.