The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  It seemed the men were far more concerned about meeting potential customers of high social standing and plentiful means than they were with enjoying themselves, and their talk left Anna feeling a little deflated. She knew that such events were, in essence, marriage markets, but she had not realized how much they could also be commercial marketplaces.

  As she prepared to leave the following morning after breakfast, Charles pulled her to one side and whispered, “I have so enjoyed your company, Anna. May I be so bold as to invite myself to Spital Square again next week?”

  • • •

  On Tuesday morning Anna recalled Miss Charlotte had promised to deliver her new sketch to Henri that afternoon. She tried to imagine herself into the scene but failed; she had no idea what the interior of the house or the weaving loft would be like. What would he think of the new painting? she wondered. Would he be able to incorporate her new naturalistic elements into the woven design? How would he translate her many shades of color into silk? She so longed to be there herself, to take part in their discussions, to observe his reactions and, she had to admit it, to hear his voice and see his smile.

  As the morning drew on, she became more and more downcast. It wasn’t fair that Miss Charlotte could be free to visit whom she wanted and when she wanted, while she, Anna, was unable to. It is like being imprisoned, she thought to herself, within invisible walls of social propriety.

  She gazed out of her window across the rooftops, recalling the freedoms of her former life. She imagined herself running with Jane across the beach and splashing in the surf at the edge of the sea, and found herself close to tears.

  “I want to go home,” she said to the pigeons.

  • • •

  Joseph and William were missing at lunchtime, and Aunt Sarah announced that she, Anna, and Lizzie had received an invitation to take tea with some friends in Hackney. “It is a fair drive, but it will do you good to get out,” she said to Anna. “You are looking rather peaked, my dear.”

  The idea came to her then, as sudden and surprising as a thunderclap. “I am so sorry, dear Aunt,” she said, touching her temple. “I do have a terrible headache. Do you mind if I do not accompany you on this occasion? I think it would be better if I rested.”

  14

  When by accident or choice you venture into the insinuating company of women, consider them all as Syrens, that have fascination in their eyes, musick on their tongues, and mischief in their hearts. If your inclinations render their society necessary to your happiness, let your prudence chuse for you, not your appetite!

  —Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate

  The clatter of looms in the weaving loft usually drowned out any noise from the street, but by coincidence and good fortune, both Henri and Benjamin had stopped their shuttles at the same moment.

  In that single second of silence could be heard the ringing of the small iron bell suspended beside the front door of the house, three stories below. Henri put down the handle of his harness, went to the window, and peered over the parapet. With one hand grasping the metal gantry, he eased his shoulders farther out the window. Now he could see the tops of the heads of two women, standing side by side on the front step.

  He called down, “Monsieur Lavalle n’est pas à la maison cet après-midi. Puis-je vous aider, mesdames?”

  Two faces tipped upward, pale moons in their white bonnets. In that astonished moment of recognition, Henri nearly lost hold of the gantry. “Mam’selle Anna! Et Charlotte! Est-ce vraiment vous?”

  Miss Charlotte shouted upward: “Indeed, it is us. We have been ringing and knocking this past five minutes. We were about to give up.”

  He leaned out even farther for a better view, almost dangling from the scaffold normally used for lifting warp beams and boxes of heavy pirns.

  Anna laughed. “Take care, Henri, or you will fly down.”

  In that moment, he did indeed feel powerful enough to fly, his body featherlight and flooded with joy. The girl who had been invading his dreams for the past few weeks was here, on his doorstep. And she had called him Henri.

  “Wait, please,” he shouted. “I will come down.”

  Only as he descended the loft ladder and the two sets of stairs did it occur to him to wonder why no one else had answered the door. M. Lavalle was out, that he knew, but where was Mariette, and Cook? It was only a fleeting thought. What did he care, when Anna was here?

  As he welcomed them both into the parlor, he realized the purpose of their visit. Under her arm, Anna held a long cylindrical package; it must be the new sketch she had promised. After a flurry of greetings, they all fell silent, listening to the ticking of M. Lavalle’s grandfather clock.

  “Oh, forgive me. Please take a seat,” he finally remembered to say.

  The two young women sat side by side on the hard settle. He offered them drinks, which they declined. He took M. Lavalle’s chair and smiled, waiting for one of them to say something. He could not help looking into Anna’s eyes, into that breathtakingly direct gaze that seemed to swallow up the rest of the world. For a few awkward moments, she seemed entirely to have forgotten the object of her mission.

  “Haven’t you got something to show Henri?” Charlotte prompted, nudging her.

  Anna started, as if from a dream. “Oh, yes,” she said, flustered. “Here is my new painting. I have added watercolor and more shading. I hope you like it.”

  He untied the string and outer wrapping, then rolled it out onto the table by the window. They stood either side of him as Anna described how her meeting with the botanical artist Mr. Ehret had opened her eyes to the need for even more careful shading to achieve the naturalism she sought. “I realized that I must return to observing real life, so I purchased more wildflowers to copy. I also had in mind the points rentrées technique Charlotte showed us last week,” she said. “I hope that you think it will be possible to weave?”

  “This is truly delightful,” Miss Charlotte said. “This shading here, for example, it works perfectly. And the colors are just right.”

  Henri was spellbound. He had loved the earlier sketch, the one with which he was now so familiar, but this new colored version was so much more vivid, so much bolder, and yet even more natural. The trellis framework of serpentine stems was still there and the rendition of the plants and flowers was so realistic that he could easily imagine himself lying in the grass among them. The beetle chewing casually at a leaf appeared so lifelike that for a second he could almost see its legs moving.

  “I can smell the fresh air of the countryside,” he said at last, taking in a deep breath. “It is wonderful. Thank you.”

  For what seemed like long, long minutes the three of them stood in silence, admiring the painting. They were standing so close that he could almost feel the heat of her, the flush that was flooding her neck and her cheeks. Her hand brushed his for a fraction of a second, and the hot charge of her touch burned through his hand, up his arm, and into his face.

  M. Lavalle had once tried to explain Gilbert’s treatise on static electricity and magnetism, and Henri had thought it a strange and confusing concept: How could something unseen be so powerful? But now he understood. As Anna turned her face to his, asking him what he thought of the painting, it was as if they were magnetic poles, and it took all his reserves of self-control to resist the force. The slightest movement of his head would have brought his lips to hers.

  Charlotte was the first to break the spell. “When we met before, you spoke of showing us the weaving loft, Henri? Would that be convenient?”

  “Oh yes, please,” Anna cried. “If Monsieur Lavalle does not object.”

  “He is out for the afternoon. But I am pleased to show you, if you do not mind climbing a ladder?”

  Anna’s face lit up with delight. “I used to be the best tree climber in the village. A l
adder will be child’s play!”

  In his broken English, Henri did his best to explain the working of the two different looms—the draw loom for figured silks and the plain silk loom on which Benjamin was weaving—and both girls seemed fascinated, firing off questions that forced him to think carefully about the answers. Some French terms had no English equivalent—momme, drogue, décreusage—but Benjamin helped with the translation.

  He spoke about the subtle differences in raw silk, depending on whether it was grown in Italy, India, or the Far East, and watched her eyes widen in wonder. For him the idea that silk should travel from far across the world was commonplace, but he could see that to anyone less accustomed, those countries would seem so distant, so exotic. It made him feel worldly, stronger, and taller, having this knowledge.

  “The silk comes in skeins, so first of all it goes to a throwster, who twists it into singles, and then into two or three threads twisted together to make tram, which is for the weft. For the warp—these threads that go along—we perhaps use organzine, which needs a higher twist to make it stronger. My mother is a throwster,” he added. “She likes the Italian silk best of all.”

  “Where does your mother live? Do you live with her?”

  “No, but she lives nearby. I see her every week. My master asks me to stay on when I finish my apprenticeship. He likes me to be here, I think.” He stopped short of adding that M. Lavalle was like a father to him. It sounded immodest, saying it like that.

  They were so engaged in lively conversation and laughter that when the bells of Christ Church chimed four o’clock, no one could believe that a full half hour had passed.

  “Is that really the time?” Anna said. “I must hasten home.”

  Climbing down the ladder in full skirts was a more difficult proposition than the ascent. Henri went first and then guided Charlotte as she negotiated the steps backward. Then it was Anna’s turn. He took her hand to help her down the last few treads. When she safely reached the bottom, he did not let go. Charlotte was already making her way down to the ground floor.

  They were alone on the landing. He looked into her eyes, lifted her fingers, and kissed them.

  “Anna. I…” His throat tightened; he couldn’t find the words to say what he was burning to tell her.

  “I know,” she said softly, holding his gaze. “It is the same for me.”

  His heart was thudding so hard in his chest he felt certain she must be able to hear it. “Can we meet again?”

  “I do not know,” she whispered. “It is difficult.”

  “I understand. But please let us find a way.”

  She nodded. How sweet she smells, he thought in those few seconds; it was the bouquet of the countryside, of herbs and flowers and sunshine. Only by actively resisting, with both mind and muscle, did he prevent himself from pulling her into his arms and immersing himself in that heady fragrance, feeling the warmth of her body against his. He’d experienced desire for many a girl before, but this was different: he had never wanted anything so intensely.

  “Charlotte…I must go,” she said eventually.

  As they set off down the next flight of stairs, he heard the quiet click of a latch behind him. It was the door to Mariette’s room.

  • • •

  “Why did you not come to say hello?” Henri asked her later when he found her sitting at the kitchen table. “It was Miss Charlotte and her friend Miss Anna. You must have heard us? They asked to see the looms.”

  “So I gathered,” she muttered. “You seemed to be having such a jolly time I did not want to interrupt you.”

  He sensed her displeasure but could not imagine what might be wrong. Did she disapprove of him neglecting his work when M. Lavalle was absent? Or was it something that had happened while she was out visiting? He found it hard to care, so elated was he from the visit and his last whispered exchange with Anna. Whatever was irritating Mariette was her problem, he decided.

  • • •

  M. Lavalle returned grim-faced from his meeting.

  “The government does not seem minded to pass the bill to raise taxes on imported fabrics,” he said over supper. “They fear other countries will follow suit and this will hit our exports. They may lower the import duty on raw silk and ban imports of silk ribbons, stockings, and gloves, but I fear these measures will make little difference to most of us.”

  “What can be done?” Henri asked. “You said yourself that many will starve if this bill is not passed.”

  “I’m afraid they do not care much for the plight of the weavers. It is the general prosperity of the country they are more concerned with.”

  “And padding their fat arses,” Benjamin added, earning himself a fierce look. M. Lavalle did not tolerate bad language in front of Mariette.

  Henri’s mood was so buoyed by the events of the afternoon that he found it hard to be gloomy. “We have the Book of Prices, at least. The masters will have to pay a fair wage.”

  “But it is not accepted by all, and when there is only work for a few, what happens to the rest? Some masters may feel they have no choice but to pay lower rates just so they can keep their business afloat, and who can really blame them? The journeymen are threatening violence against those who will not sign, and the government is talking about settling troops in the area to protect citizens.”

  Henri shivered. It sounded too much like the tales his mother told of the dragonnades.

  • • •

  Later, Henri took out Anna’s painting and rolled it out flat along the table at the window to catch the dying rays of dusk. As he studied the detail, admiring once more the delicacy of the color she had added and the remarkable naturalism of her line, he felt close to her once again, almost as though she were looking over his shoulder. He set out his paints and a tiny brush and began translating the design into dots of color on the squared point paper which would guide the setup of the loom. As he worked, he found himself humming with the sheer pleasure of the task.

  When the light faded, he knew that his color accuracy was being compromised and he would have to stop for the night. He rolled up the paper and held it to his cheek as if to conjure the touch of her skin against his, feeling once again the intensity of longing that he had experienced in her presence.

  He lit a candle and took out a slip of paper. This time he did not care whether his spelling and grammar were correct.

  Dear Anna,

  My purpose is to thank you from the bottom of my Heart for your new peinture. It is very beautiful & natural, more even than the 1st one. This evening I start work on the design for the loom & hope to weave soon. As it is a slow time M. Lavalle allows me to set up the loom for it so God Speed I am abel to finish my Master Piece by the end of next month. The Committee meet in January, that is my goal.

  It is not easy to make the weave of all those beautiful curves but as I work I think of you, Anna. I hope we can meet again soon.

  With best wishes,

  Henri

  At the very moment of signing his name, he regretted it. Should the letter fall into unintended hands, might it lead to difficulties with her family? It is difficult, she had whispered and he knew all too well why. Such a powerful emotion surely cannot be denied, he thought to himself, and she feels the same. She said so. We will find a way. But for the moment, perhaps it was best to be discreet. He rewrote the letter, signing himself simply with an H, which felt even more intimate and exciting.

  • • •

  Although it was not yet cold enough for the fire to be lit, M. Lavalle was settled, as usual of an evening, into his favorite upholstered wing chair by the empty fireplace, comfortable in his informal indoor garb: the dark-green dressing gown of soft serge, his ruby velvet hat and embroidered slippers.

  “Have you a few moments? I have something to show you,” Henri asked. If his master approved of the new design, he needed to pu
t forward the all-important request: the use of the draw loom and the services of the drawboy for three weeks, so that he could set up and weave the requisite five yards of his master piece.

  “Later, later,” he said. “Close the door and join me, lad. We have something to discuss.” The old man filled his clay pipe with a pinch of tobacco and lit it. He sucked in and then breathed out a sigh of aromatic smoke.

  “We have never talked of your future, have we?”

  “I have been working on the design for my master piece and hope one day to become a master myself,” Henri said. “You know that I have always had the highest regard for you, sir.”

  “And I you. Very much so. In fact, I have for some time regarded you as the son we never had.”

  “You have been the very best kind of father to me.”

  “But the implication is complicated.” M. Lavalle paused, as if trying to find the right words. And then, after a few moments, they seemed to come out in a rush: “I am getting old and tired, Henri. But I have no one to take on my business, except you.”

  “Me? But, sir, I could not afford to buy your business.”

  “I do not mean to sell it to you, boy. I would like you to inherit it. As a son would.”

  A pulse throbbed in Henri’s temple. This was such an unexpected twist that he could barely comprehend it. He had imagined perhaps raising enough money to rent a small room and a loom, as Guy had done, in Bethnal Green, where rents were cheaper, and working up slowly, maybe eventually being able to buy a house in Spitalfields with a weaving loft and take on his own apprentices. But now he was being offered the chance to inherit an established and well-respected silk weaving business. It was beyond his wildest dreams.

  “I hardly know how to respond,” he gasped.

  “But, as I said, there are complications.”

  “Of course. You must consider everything very carefully. The legal issues and so on.”

  “You misunderstand me. Those are mere administrative details and easy to solve. My main concern is Mariette.”