by Liz Trenow
Charles began to pace the small area in front of the fireplace.
“In my situation, as a pupil”—he gestured around the scruffy room—“I have to be totally aboveboard in everything I do. I cannot take on pro bono cases at will, without the say-so of my masters. And they are unlikely to agree, because I have to prove I can earn money for the chambers. Surely you understand my difficulty here?”
“We understand it only too well,” William said. “And it certainly wouldn’t do for word to get out that you resorted to threatening someone’s life to relieve you of your debt, would it?”
Anna’s mouth almost fell open—Charles threatened to kill someone?
“It wasn’t me who did the threatening.”
“But it was you who paid the man who did the threatening,” William said. “And that man will sing, if I ask him.”
Charles stopped pacing, ripped off his wig, and threw it across the room. He rubbed his head and sighed loudly.
“Bloody hell, William. You leave me with little choice. But I will remember this, mark my words.”
“Just do the business and we’ll be square,” William said calmly. “Now, Anna, would you like to brief our learned friend?”
• • •
On the way back from the Inns, William suggested they call in at a coffeehouse. Anna had never set foot inside one before, and was curious. The place was very warm, with a huge cauldron hung over a roaring fire and rough wooden benches around tables crowded with groups of men reading newspapers or engaged in intense and sometimes heated discussions.
Their entrance attracted a fair number of stares: the only other woman was behind the serving hatch. “I suppose it’s not done for women to frequent these places?” she said as they searched for an empty table.
“Men come here to conduct business mainly. Mother would have a fit if she knew I’d brought you here,” he said with a grin. “But who cares? I thought you might enjoy seeing another side of city life.”
“I want to keep company with people because I like them, not for how far they can pull me up the social ladder.” It felt good, admitting this to William. Despite his insufferable prejudices and insalubrious habits, they had one thing in common. He, too, was a bit of a rebel.
The coffee arrived and she took a sip of the dark, bitter liquid, stronger than any she’d ever tasted before. “You kept that quiet: Charles threatening someone to get out of paying his debts.”
“I like to keep my powder dry,” William said with a smirk. “It was satisfying to see the creep squirm.”
“Will he keep his side of the bargain, do you think?”
“I’m certain of it. The alternative would be unthinkable in his position. You’ve had me over a barrel with this business, Anna, but in a strange kind of way I’m enjoying it. Of course I consort with prostitutes. What man doesn’t? I’m no saint. I drink a pint or two, and sometimes associate with some pretty unsavory characters. But if I can get an innocent man freed without having my name all over the newspapers, it will be worth it.”
“Even a Frenchman?”
“We hate the French because we’ve been at war with them for years and because there are just too many flooding into our city and taking our jobs. But I’ve nothing against individuals; I have to admit they are bloody good weavers and designers. And talking of designers, it’s time for you to deliver your part of the bargain. Drink up. We’re going to call in on Miss Charlotte on our way home.”
• • •
The seamstress was busy with a customer, so they were offered seats in the back room and waited quietly, listening through the open door as Miss Charlotte pulled out bolts of fabric for the lady to consider.
“It’s called the new naturalism,” they heard her explain. “Delicate colors, fine design, and, above all, natural forms. Nothing too large or overly obvious, of course. And see the curved lines, just like in nature. Straight lines and geometric designs are too severe for a beautiful young woman like you.”
The customer sighed. “It’s all so charming, I cannot choose.”
“Of course you could always consider calico,” Miss Charlotte said. “On cotton, the designs can be printed. It’s very à la mode.”
“Oh no, it has to be silk. Mama would not have me seen in cotton, not for formal, anyway.”
William whispered, “It’s the perfect lesson.”
“But will you-know-who and her friends want to have just what everyone else wants?” Anna whispered back. “Or will they be after something different, to be distinctive?”
“How can anyone know what that difference needs to be?”
“That’s the thing about fashion,” Anna said. “Everyone has to guess what the next big thing is likely to be before it has arrived.”
• • •
When the young lady left, Miss Charlotte joined them.
“What news of Henri?”
“Nothing, as yet,” Anna said. “But things are looking hopeful. Charlotte, meet my cousin William, silk mercer, of Sadler and Son.” He bowed; she curtsied. “We have been to see a friend of William’s who is a lawyer at the Inns. And we believe we have found a witness who will testify that although Henri was in the area of the Dolphin, he was not with the Bold Defiance men.”
“A witness! Oh, I can hardly believe it.” Charlotte flushed with pleasure, fanning her face with her hand. “How wonderful. You must tell me as soon as you have news.”
“I promise,” Anna said. “But I have brought William here on another matter.”
“Of course. Please, come and sit down.”
As William explained about the search for the perfect samples of fabric to tempt a princess, the smile on Miss Charlotte’s face grew wider.
“Every mercer in the land is on the same quest,” she said. “But you are the first to consult me. I am most flattered, sir.”
“What would be your advice, please?”
“I can tell you what the ladies like to wear today and could have a stab at predicting what they will want to wear tomorrow. But the princess is German and will have her own ideas; who knows what she may fancy? Fashion is always a gamble, and you need a touch of magic to stay ahead. But one thing is certain: whatever she chooses will instantly become the very latest thing among society ladies. Everyone will seek to copy, but whoever gets it right in the first place will make their fortune while the others are trying to catch up.”
“We’ll just take a little bag of that magic dust, please,” he said. “I am sure you have some tucked away in your storeroom, do you not?”
Charlotte grinned. “Indeed, I wish I had. But what I do have is up here.” She tapped her forehead. “Give me some time to think on it.”
As they rose to leave, her eyes suddenly widened. She clasped Anna’s arm. “I’ve had an idea. Did Henri finish weaving your design, do you know?”
“He wrote that he was nearly finished, but…” Anna shook her head. “Surely, you are not thinking…?”
“It’s perfect. Modern, very naturalistic, and slightly quirky. The line of beauty, remember? Those subtle points rentrées? It just might catch the eye, among all those other submissions.”
“What the devil is all this about?” William muttered.
Anna ignored him, too astonished to explain. “Charlotte, are you seriously suggesting that my design might be suitable to be considered for the royal trousseau?”
Charlotte nodded. “If he has woven it well, and since it was for his master piece I feel sure that he will have done, what is there to lose?”
22
Above all things, learn to put a due value on time and husband every moment as if it were to be your last. In time is comprehended all we possess, enjoy, or wish for; and in losing that, we lose them all.
—Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
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br /> The visit from Anna and her father had, briefly, given Henri heart.
If I ever get out of here, I will do everything to regain her friendship, he promised himself. But this flicker of hope was followed by an even deeper despair when an official arrived to tell him that his trial had been set for the following week. The prospect of release seemed more distant than ever, and he had almost lost hope of ever getting out of prison alive, save for the journey to the gibbet.
So when a tall, gaunt-looking fellow in a newly powdered wig and perfectly white hose stepped into his cell and introduced himself as Charles Hinchliffe, lawyer, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Accompanying him was another man, smaller and altogether less impressive, whose face seemed familiar.
“Henri Vendôme? I have come to help you clear your name,” the lawyer said without preamble. “We believe that this man here, William Sadler, may have been a witness to your innocence.” Now the mystery was solved, Henri became even more confused. Surely this was Anna’s cousin, the brute who had punched him in the street outside the Red Lyon that day? How could he possibly be a witness?
The answer came as soon as Sadler opened his mouth. Henri now knew, with a powerful certainty, that he was indeed the man who had cursed him in the alleyway next to the Dolphin that terrible night. A genuine witness, at last, after all these weeks of waiting! Could this be truly happening, or was it a dream? But how had they come to be here? What had made William come forward? Who was paying for this smart society lawyer? Nothing was explained, and he was too astonished to ask.
Mr. Hinchliffe asked Henri to recount the story of that night, telling nothing but the whole truth. Henri, his head reeling, did his best. Then he inquired as to whether Henri recognized William as the man he had encountered that night, outside the Dolphin pub, and he agreed that he did. Though it had been dark, the voice was unmistakable, he said.
The lawyer then turned to William and asked whether he recognized Henri as the man who had been in the alleyway that night, and he acknowledged that he did. There was no mention of the other circumstances, or the whore. Would the two of them be prepared to swear to it under oath, on the Bible, in front of a judge? They both agreed.
Charles went on to explain that after making their statements, they must both agree never to speak of this discussion or reveal each other’s identity in this matter to any other party in the future. This was to be an entirely clandestine arrangement. They concurred and shook hands. Shortly afterward, Charles and William departed.
That afternoon, the guard brought Henri some clean clothes and a bowl of water with some soap and a cloth to wash his face. “Make yourself respectable, quick sharp, laddie,” he said brusquely. “Can’t have you appearing before His Honor looking like something dragged in from the gutter, can we?”
To catcalls and curses from the other inmates, he was led along many corridors and through several doors to a small room in which sat a large, florid-faced man in a shoulder-length wig, who was introduced as the judge. Also in the room were William Sadler, Charles Hinchliffe, and a clerk who scribbled down every word spoken.
He was required to place his hand on a Bible and swear that he would tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and then asked to repeat his story. The judge asked a couple of questions: How could he know it was William Sadler, given it was so dark? And could he swear that he had not at any time that evening entered the Dolphin? He answered both as well as he could.
When the judge was satisfied, the clerk pushed forward a piece of paper which he was told to read and sign. William Sadler then had to repeat the process, swearing to tell the truth, recounting his side of the story, answering a few questions, then signing his statement. Without further explanation, Henri was dismissed and returned to his cell, scarcely daring to imagine what, if anything, might happen next.
Then, this morning, he’d woken to the sound of his cell door opening and the guard saying, “Wakey, wakey. You’re free to go.”
Surely he was dreaming? “What, now? This very minute?” he heard his voice saying.
“Right now. Come on. Scram, before they change their minds.”
• • •
After three weeks in the gloom of the prison, the sunlight was blinding.
As he stumbled down the steps onto the street, familiar faces and voices emerged out of the glare. His mother, Clothilde, was wrapping a sweet-smelling woolen blanket around his shoulders and enfolding him into her arms, the warm, firm hold that had comforted him since birth. “Mon trésor, mon petit garçon,” she whispered over and over again. “Thank the Lord. You are back with us at last.”
Mariette was by his side, kissing his cheek and taking his hand, her high-pitched voice squeaking words he found unintelligible. M. Lavalle stood to the front of him, placing both hands on each of his cheeks and, in an unexpectedly intimate gesture, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “Mon fils,” he said. “My son, my son.” Beyond him, in a row, were Benjamin, the cook, and the drawboy—the entire household, all of them grinning from ear to ear.
Henri could hardly take it in. Much as he had longed for it, he now found himself recoiling from human contact, consumed by the awareness of how filthy and stinking he must be, of how he must go home to bathe, to shave and scrub away the grime of the prison, the smells of human excrement and fear.
In a daze, he allowed himself to be dragged along, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the sunlight. And then he saw her, running at full tilt toward them, skirt hitched and showing her boots, her bonnet loosening and flying back from her head.
As she approached, the image seemed to take on a magical quality, a brilliance and intensity, as if she were some kind of ephemeral being. The world appeared to slow down, the voices distanced as though he were inside a glass bowl. Am I imagining this? he asked himself. Is it a mirage?
But no, it was real. She stopped, a few yards away, and he stopped, and the whole entourage stopped.
“Henri,” she whispered, her cheeks glowing pinkly. “I am so sorry to intrude, but I just had to see you.”
He forgot how dirty and smelly he was, forgot his mother, his master, and Mariette and stepped forward, taking her out-held hands.
“Anna,” he said. “Is it you?” His eyes were drawn into that deep, blue-green gaze, until he sensed a movement behind her and looked up to the tall, stooped figure with a clerical collar arriving at her side.
M. Lavalle’s voice boomed in his ear. “Henri, may we be introduced?”
“Allow me,” Theodore said. “Anna is a friend to Henri, and I am her father, Theodore Butterfield. Pleased to meet you.”
Henri gathered his wits. “Anna, Reverend Butterfield, please meet my mother, Clothilde; my master, Monsieur Lavalle; and his daughter, Mariette.” He turned to M. Lavalle. “I suspect it may be Anna and her father that I have to thank for my release.” As he looked back into Anna’s face, she gave the hint of a nod.
“Then we owe you the greatest honor in the world, my friends,” M. Lavalle said, doffing his cap. “May we invite you to visit us once Henri has had time to recover from this ordeal?”
“And take a bath,” Henri said, once more aware of his filthy state. Everyone laughed.
“Très bonne idée, you smell terrible,” his mother said. “But what do we care? You are back with us; that is all that matters.”
Theodore put his hand on Anna’s shoulder. “It would be our greatest pleasure to visit you. But for now, we must leave you in peace. Come, Anna.”
It was only when she turned to leave that Henri realized, throughout all of this conversation, they had not loosed their hands. Letting go felt like a small bereavement.
• • •
Everything had happened so fast, he mused to himself as he lay back in the tin bathtub of steaming water in front of a roaring fire. Everyone else was banished upstairs. Only Cook, who had bathed him since he was a raw
ten-year-old apprentice, was allowed to stay, replenishing the hot water from a kettle steaming on the range.
Also on the range was a bubbling stew of mutton and dumplings, and in the fire below were potatoes baking in their skins. Even though he’d already eaten a small snack of bread and cheese and taken half a pint of porter that had made his head swim, the delicious smells were causing his stomach to rumble all over again. But the luxury of soaking in this warm, sweet-smelling bath was too glorious to hurry.
• • •
As they sat down to luncheon, Henri recounted what he could of the events of the past few days. When they asked who the elusive witness was he said, truthfully, that he had sworn on the Bible to preserve the man’s anonymity. And where did this grand lawyer come from, they asked? Who was paying his fee? Again, he could not answer.
He wanted to know how M. Lavalle and his mother had known to come to the prison at the precise moment of his release. His master explained that an anonymous note had been thrust under the front door late last night. All it said was Henri to be freed 8 a.m. It was all very mystifying but, given the happy outcome, everyone around the table agreed it was hardly important anymore.
He felt an overwhelming gratitude toward Anna and her father, certain that they must have engineered his release. Had she somehow divined from their conversation in the prison that her cousin William was the witness, the man with the lisp? Had she persuaded him to come forward in his defense? But who had paid for the lawyer? He doubted that a vicar would have that kind of money, and surely it could not have been the miserly uncle, Joseph Sadler?
Much later, after all the stew had been eaten, several jugs of porter had been drunk, much news had been shared, and many embraces and kisses exchanged, Henri excused himself and retired to his room. But, weary as he was, he found himself afraid to sleep, for fear of waking to discover that it had all been a dream.