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by Liz Trenow

The next couple of days were spent reacquainting herself with the village. Walking down the short main street with her sister took a full couple of hours because everyone wanted to stop and ask her about life in the city. Some of their questions were plainly absurd, such as “Made your fortune yet?” or “Have you met our new king?” and she deflected with a smile the thinly disguised inquiries about her romantic prospects: “I expect you’ve met many fine young folk there?” She did not care if the rumors ran wild, as they always did in a village. They would soon discover that she was staying for good.

  During these conversations, she noticed a new relationship between Jane and the other villagers. Her own absence seemed to have given her sister greater confidence to speak to almost anyone, her place more clearly defined in this secure little world. Her vocabulary was also greatly improved. For their part, people appeared to be more solicitous of Jane’s welfare than before, as though they had taken on the mantle of ensuring her well-being and safety while her big sister was away. More than once, Anna was told that “Jane’s definitely coming out of her shell.” Sometimes they added, “Been doing her best to look after your dear father, that she has, poor love.”

  At home she learned that, in fact, although Jane had been doing the shopping, some basic cleaning and laying of fires, she had not been managing at all with the laundry and the cooking. Despite the generosity of neighbors, who often left on the doorstep homemade bread, cooked dishes, and prepared vegetables, her father had been obliged to employ a cook and housemaid on weekdays. She dared not ask him where he found the money. More than likely he was just slipping further into debt in the hope—now vain, as it turned out—that his elder daughter would marry into wealth and gain the means to pay them off.

  She had forgotten how chill was the wind at the coast, how the rain came at you sideways straight off the North Sea, how the mud of the paths clagged to your shoes until it was barely possible to drag them onward. But in brighter, calmer moments, she and Jane managed some walks through the marshes and along the beach, collecting driftwood for the fires and “hagstones”—flints with holes worn through them from centuries of abrading by the forces of the sea—to hang by the door for good luck. Her father disapproved: “Just stupid old superstitions,” he said. So they had always compromised by hanging them at the back door so they could not be seen from the street.

  • • •

  Perhaps because of her physical weaknesses Jane was often weary, and it was her habit to retire early, leaving Anna and her father at liberty to talk long into the night. During one of these conversations, she told him about the troubles facing the family in London, much of which had been brought about, as far as she could see, by William’s gambling and theft.

  “It’s so cruel,” she said. “I am sure Aunt Sarah is ignorant of the problems he has caused because Uncle Joseph has covered up for him. But perhaps this is for the best. All she really wants is for her family to be happy and for the business to prosper sufficiently so they can move to a larger house, preferably on Ludgate Hill, and get Uncle’s portrait painted by Mr. Gainsborough.”

  “Gainsborough? Goodness, they are becoming puffed up! That would cost a penny or two.”

  “He’s such a nice man, Pa.”

  “You met Mr. Gainsborough?”

  “We went to his London studio and he talked about his painting and how there’s going to be a new Society of the Arts, to hold exhibitions. He even suggested that women might be able to show their work.”

  “Women such as my talented daughter? And why not, indeed?”

  She blushed at the memory of it. “He was just being gracious. Still, I am very unlikely to meet him again—all their plans for such things are now lost, at least until Uncle Joseph can recover his reputation. But Aunt Sarah is so very low; it’s as if she has no reason for living.”

  “I am sure things will turn out for the better before long. But what about William? What is he doing to make amends?”

  “I think he has stopped the gambling, at least,” she answered. “And he has been working hard to sell more of their fabric stocks, to pay off the fine. But he says much of it is out of fashion.” They sat in silence, gazing into the flames of the fire for several minutes. “London society is beastly, you know,” she went on. “Because of the scandal, the whole family has been ostracized.”

  “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You know what I am talking about. Has this horrid affair damaged your reputation, too? Is this why you were so keen to come home?”

  “I wanted to be here for Christmas. I told you.”

  “Of course I hoped you would come but confess that it was a surprise. I’d have thought there would be many more exciting diversions in the city during the festive season. Young men, for example.”

  “There was a young man, a lawyer, from another mercer’s family who used to be best friends with Sarah and Joseph. I wrote to you about him, I believe? He even proposed, Pa! But he dropped me like a hot potato after the scandal emerged.”

  Her father leaned across and placed his hand on hers. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.”

  “Please do not be concerned for me, for I am not the slightest bit sorry. He was nice enough, but I did not love him. He gambles, too, according to William. And we had nothing whatsoever in common.”

  “Have you absolutely made up your mind not to return? What about this friend you wrote of, the seamstress?”

  “Miss Charlotte. Yes, I shall miss her,” Anna sighed. “She’s such an inspiration. Never married, I think, or perhaps widowed; it seemed indelicate to inquire, although she has family—I met her nephew. But what I most admire is that she runs her own shop and earns an independent living from her seamstress work. All the society ladies patronize her, but at the same time she seems to have the freedom to socialize with whomever she pleases.”

  “Whereas, reading between the lines of your letters, am I to understand that you did not?”

  Anna nodded. “I was not even allowed to leave the house without permission and certainly not without a chaperone. I couldn’t bear it, being so constrained. It’s no life for someone like me.”

  • • •

  Another evening, he asked, “And what do you think now, my free-spirited daughter, should be the best kind of life for you?”

  She looked up at him sharply. “What prompted that?”

  “You talking so glowingly about your friend the other night.”

  “It would be wonderful to find a way of making an independent living, without having to get married for it.” As she spoke, she recalled the powerful display of affection between Charlotte and her nephew, and then remembered the sadness in Charlotte’s eyes when he had gone. Being single, without children, seemed also to have its drawbacks.

  “You do not wish to be married?”

  “Of course I do, but to someone I love, not just because they are wealthy and speak the right…” She stopped herself.

  “The right what?”

  “The right language, I was going to say.”

  His forehead furrowed. “So who is it that speaks the wrong language?”

  She explained how a quarter of all people in Spitalfields were French and that many were weavers, suppliers to merchants like her uncle.

  “I have heard of the French Protestants who came over because of Catholic persecution. There are some in Norwich, I believe. But you have met some of these people? How fascinating. Theirs must be a very different kind of culture to ours?”

  “Not at all. They are just like us. They work and eat and sleep and go to church and dream about their futures, just like we do. They love growing flowers and keeping songbirds, and they are the best craftspeople in London.” She found herself speaking slightly too emphatically, too fervently, and saw the understanding dawning on her father’s face.

  �
��You know some of these French, I think? In fact, I would go so far as to guess that you are rather fond of them, or is it him?” She couldn’t help smiling—she had forgotten how acutely her father seemed to understand human motivation.

  And so the story came out: about the market stall, and the sketch, and the French journeyman weaver who bought it as the design for his master piece, which he had been weaving. About how Charlotte had encouraged him because she loved the design which had reminded her of Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty and believed it would go well with fashionable society ladies. And how she, Anna, had imagined that she might, one day, learn enough about weaving to become a proper silk designer and make some kind of living, but that her visit to Henri’s master’s house and the weaving loft had ended in disaster.

  Her father listened without speaking, as she rambled through the story. When finally she stopped, he thought for a few seconds.

  “It all seems to make perfect sense to me, my darling. And furthermore”—he paused again, rubbing his temple as though considering whether it was wise to continue—“it sounds to me as though you are a little in love with this Henri? Am I right?”

  Hearing her father say his name was just too much: her chin began to wobble and a tear escaped down her cheek. He gathered her into his arms.

  “My dearest, I am so sorry. I did not wish to upset you. What is making you so sad? Were your affections not reciprocated?”

  “I believed that they were, Pa,” she sobbed. “At first. But it is impossible. He is a French journeyman and Aunt Sarah is trying to transform me into a society lady.”

  “And if she knew you were actually in love with this lad, she’d literally explode with horror?”

  The vision was so irresistible that it made Anna chuckle, even through her tears. Her father returned to his chair, and she took a few deep breaths, drying her face with his handkerchief.

  “Well, do you know what?” he said at last. “I am your father, and it is up to me to decide who is worthy of your hand, not Sarah. After Christmas, we shall go to London and make a visit to this Henri fellow and his master. How’s about that?”

  “It’s no good, Pa. In his last note he told me that any further friendship is impossible. I just have to accept that there is no future in it.”

  • • •

  Christmas Eve came and went, much as always. It was a time of happiness and sorrow, the joy of traditional rituals—bringing green branches into the house, cooking and eating the goose and the pudding, the exchange of gifts followed by midnight mass and a glass of mulled beer—tinged with sadness because this was the first year her mother had not been here to share them.

  The following day, as was their habit, they invited all the lonely souls of the village into the vicarage for luncheon. The wide oak dining table that usually served as a storage space for her father’s books and papers was cleared and polished until it gleamed; every item of cutlery, every plate, saucer, cup, and tankard in the cupboards was brought out, dusted, and shaken to dislodge unwary spiders, bottles were opened, leftovers and other contributions of food unwrapped and set out upon it, every chair and stool collected from the nether regions of the house placed around it. Logs were brought in, fires were set, and candles were lit against the gloom of a heavy sky that threatened never to brighten.

  Partway through the meal, Anna found herself with a moment free to cast her eyes around the room. The assembled company, twenty-two in all, were mostly elderly ladies in their Sunday best, white hair carefully coiffed and caps stiffly starched, and a few widowers, uncomfortable in wigs which almost certainly never left their boxes from one end of the year to the other. There was the young, sallow-faced widow failing to keep control of her four unruly children, a couple of unmarriageable bachelors, and a motley assortment of other unfortunates, the blind, the deaf, and the weak of mind.

  Observing the way they helped and took care of one another, she was struck by how comfortable everyone seemed, how mutually supportive, how unconcerned with difference. Of course, there were the snobbish people—people who, on this day, would be supping the wine of the De Vries family, the landowners up at the great hall. But the rest of us just mix along, regardless of income or status, she thought to herself. And isn’t society the better, the stronger, the healthier for it?

  And yet, in the same moment, she found it impossible to imagine herself here in ten, twenty, or fifty years’ time, seeing the same group of people, doing the same things each day. Living here at the coast, in a small fishing village at the end of a single five-mile track, provided infinitely wide and varied geographical horizons but the narrowest of social prospects: no marriageable young men, scarcely any means of earning a living, few opportunities for meeting interesting people, and, most crucially, nothing ever surprising or unexpected.

  • • •

  On the first day of January the snow began to fall and continued falling for thirty-six hours. Unless there was a sudden thaw, the village would be cut off for several days at the very least. No one was greatly concerned: this was an almost annual event, and every household stored additional supplies of food, fuel, and candles against the prospect. While her father resumed his usual studies and writing, Jane and Anna spent their time sewing—many of the curtains and much of the bed linen were in urgent need of repair—cleaning out cupboards, and taking brisk, slippery walks. Jane could not read, but she enjoyed card games and checkers, which Anna usually allowed her to win.

  At last, after about five days, the weather warmed and the snow turned to slush, so now they saw an occasional cart passing down the street. Around lunchtime, the post boy arrived with mail that had accumulated in the office at Halesworth.

  Anna picked up the most recent newspaper and went to sit by the fire. As she turned the pages, a tiny headline caught her eye. The report beneath it was terse.

  SPITALFIELDS JOURNEYMEN TO BE HANGED

  Three French journeyman weavers were today sentenced to hang for breaking and entering, damage to property, and threats to murder. All are linked to the Bold Defiance, a group turning to violent means to demand rates outlined in the so-called Book of Prices.

  Just then, her father came over with a letter. “Tucked in with my mail,” he said. “It’s for you.”

  “Whoever could it be?” she said, examining the writing on the fine vellum, folded and sealed. It was a female hand but not Lizzie’s nor her aunt’s. “I am not expecting news and I barely know anyone in London well enough to exchange letters.”

  “Oh, open it, do,” Jane said. “Stop wasting time wondering.”

  January 7, 1761

  Dearest Anna,

  Forgive me for troubling you, but I bring unhappy news. Henri is in jail, wrongly arrested in connection with the Bold Defiance. There are fears he may face the death penalty. M. Lavalle is desperate. I thought perhaps you might know someone who could help? I know you would if you could. Please come, if you can, as soon as possible?

  Yours affectionately,

  Charlotte

  Terror gripped her chest. Surely such a gentle soul would not turn to violence? And then, like an icicle piercing her heart, she recalled the placard at that rally where she’d spied his friend Guy from the carriage so long ago. Bold Defiance: fair pay for all. If Guy was involved with this group, might Henri might have been, too?

  She checked the date of the newspaper—January 10, three days after Miss Charlotte wrote her letter. Could Henri be one of those three, already tried, found guilty, and sentenced to hang?

  20

  The greatest achievement for a man, the one he must aspire to at all times, is freedom: for an apprentice, freedom from indentures; for a journeyman, the freedom to become a Master and employ his own men; for a Master, to achieve the ultimate, the Freedom of the City.

  —Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
r />   Each morning, for a split second before fully wakening, Henri could imagine himself to be in the warm truckle bed beside the kitchen in the basement at Wood Street.

  Then he would hear the clang of a metal door, the howling and cursing of his fellow inmates, or a volley of violent threats from a guard, and harsh reality would crowd in. He’d become accustomed to the smells that, at first, had made him gag, and since M. Lavalle had brought in extra clothes and blankets, the biting cold had become almost bearable. But the noises of the prison were the one thing he could not grow used to.

  He had been arrested by the Runners and, despite his protestations of innocence, had been charged with damage to property and causing affray. Now here he was in jail, awaiting trial. He’d been told he would likely be sent to a penal colony or even, because the authorities were so determined to crack down on the weavers’ protests, face the death penalty.

  Not even in the most difficult times of his life, after his father and sister had drowned and his mother seemed to have lost the will to live, could Henri remember feeling such darkness in his soul. In just a few hours of drunkenness, he had let down everyone who had supported him: his mother, M. Lavalle, Mariette, Miss Charlotte—and Guy, of course.

  Several times he’d tried shouting his friend’s name in the chance that his cell was close enough to hear, but all he got in response were the curses of other prisoners. When he asked the guards if he could be taken to see his friend, they were without pity: “Think you can curry favor, in your position? Get lost, French vermin.”

  M. Lavalle visited and said they were trying to raise bail. But it seemed the authorities were refusing to countenance it, adamant that the prisoners should be held as an example of how all vestiges of the rebellion were being crushed. Three people had been injured that night, he learned, and sixteen arrested—some of them were in the communal cell in which he spent his first few days. The phrase “death penalty” had been widely whispered among the group, but he tried to banish it from his mind. M. Lavalle did his best to reassure him. Henri was of good character and had an unblemished record; surely the mere keeping of company with a group of protestors was not a felonious crime?

 

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