3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  ‘Did the gentleman give you his name?’

  ‘He did not. I would know him again, though; he had a mane of hair and was dressed like a thespian.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  Mr Cutbush looked puzzled, and then uncertain. ‘Well, now you have me. It could have been last week or last July, I’m not much good at remembering such things.’

  It sounded as if Mr Dillon had been making enquiries about firearms – but when, and why? Rhia left the curio shop, and was deep in thought when a cart drove through a puddle and threw muddy water up at her. Today she longed to be riding Epona on the headland, where there were no passing vehicles or chimney stacks and no slops raining from upstairs windows. She turned into a shabby lane of weaver’s cottages that she judged should come out near Lombard Street. The lane was deserted and bleak. Through a curtainless window, she glimpsed a room almost barren of furnishings. A woman and her skinny brood were huddled together for warmth, all bent over their sewing. In Greystones the weavers were poor, but there were always faggots for a fire and a pot of coddle on the make. There was always someone, like her mother, who cared.

  Weaving was once a respectable trade and a profession that could earn a decent wage. If machines were clever enough to make cloth, then how many other trades would they claim? Rhia tried to imagine Spitalfields in the time before the factories, when the French Protestants had run the London silk trade. It was hard to conjure. She’d read that the Huguenots had cultivated a mulberry plantation, since this was all the fussy silk worms would eat. Barely a tree was now to be seen in Spitalfields. Neither the mulberry plants nor the creatures themselves thrived in the climate. Rhia empathised with the silk worm. The penetrating damp had reached her toes, even through her lace-up boots and woollen stockings.

  When she came to a junction in the road, she was only a step or two away from Lombard Street and looking forward to a glass of strong coffee. The Jerusalem looked busy from what little she could see of its interior through the fogged glass, but she was not prepared for the atmosphere that greeted her when she entered. This was not at all what she expected. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of men. The confusion of raised voices reminded her of the Dublin pony market. There was barely room to stand, let alone be seated, and she realised her entrance was slowly making an impression. There was not another woman in the room. The Jerusalem was a meeting place, not somewhere warm and dry to enjoy a quiet beverage.

  An entire wall was dedicated to the kind of wooden file boxes that one might see at a printer’s or stationer’s shop, furnished with piles of ledgers. On a long, narrow table beneath were piles of broadsheets, pipe dishes, tin coffee pots and a number of notebooks and pencils. Several sheets of grid-lined paper were pinned on a corkboard close by, though Rhia was not close enough to see the entries inked in their columns. She guessed it had something to do with shipping, since a good number of the men in the room had the salty look of merchant captains. She had seen enough to realise that this was not a place one came to enjoy a harmless cup of coffee. She was beginning to feel self-conscious. She turned to leave as she heard a familiar voice.

  ‘I thought it must be you, Miss Mahoney!’ Sid was grinning broadly at her bewilderment. ‘I see that you have taken an interest in the exchange!’

  ‘Not in the least. My only interest was in a glass of coffee.’

  ‘Coffee, well you’d best look elsewhere. You will only distract these gentlemen from their business.’ Sid seemed hugely entertained that Rhia had come to a coffee house for coffee.

  ‘I tell you what, Miss Mahoney, I’m about done here and then I’m off to visit Gracey. Why not walk with me?’ It was a good distance from Cornhill to Regent Street, Rhia had walked it before, but she nodded. Why not? She had nothing better to do. They left and she was relieved to be back in the damp air.

  ‘Is it always so crowded in the Jerusalem?’ she asked as they walked back along Cornhill. Sid shook his head.

  ‘Tea and China silk is at a premium – meaning it’s scarce and in demand and above the usual market price. There is a lot of selling of small goods going on, to secure ordinary commodities.’

  ‘Ordinary commodities?’

  ‘That’s stock that always has a market, no matter how expensive it gets.’

  ‘So it’s like chess – minor possessions sacrificed to secure the more powerful?’

  ‘I’ve never played the game of chess; too clever for me, but that’s about it, yes.’

  ‘And what were all the ledgers and folders in the box-shelving?’

  ‘Files. Shipping documents from Bombay, Calcutta, Canton, Sydney, Hobart Town … and all the intermediates – Rio, St Helena and the like. Those files have the arrival and departure dates of every ship, what she’s carrying, plus current prices. It’s my job to know what’s in those. Keeps me on me toes!’

  ‘I should think so.’ Rhia remembered the calling card. ‘I’ve another question for you.’ She reached into her reticule and extracted the card, turning it over so that Sid could see the characters on the back. ‘Do you know what the numbers or the character might mean?’

  Sid took the card and squinted at it. ‘I’ve not a darn clue what that squiggle is,’ he said, stabbing his finger at the character. ‘Chinese I expect. The numbers look to me like coordinates though; that is, an exact place out in the middle of the ocean, but I’m no sailor, Miss Mahoney. I couldn’t tell you which bit of ocean it is. Looks like a woman’s wrote it though, judging by how neat the hand is.’

  Rhia put the card back in her reticule. She’d not considered that it might be a woman’s hand. She knew only that the hand-writing was not her uncle’s. Perhaps he’d had a sweetheart, but why would someone – let alone a woman – write ship’s coordinates and a Chinese character on a calling card?

  The chimneys of the red-brick mill buildings towered above neglected tenements along Threadneedle Street. The chimneys reminded her of the cigars of the patrons of the Jerusalem. In no time they had walked the length of Cheapside and Sid had pointed out the Mercer’s Hall on Ironmonger’s Lane, where all the ‘gentrified’ cloth merchants met. In fact, he said, Mr Montgomery was known as ‘king of the mercers’. The City of London, he said, had long been inhabited by financiers and cloth traders, the partnership that had led to merchant banking. ‘If only Gracey and I could put together what we know of banking and cloth and do the same,’ he joked.

  It seemed to take no time at all to reach Regent Street with someone to talk to. When Grace saw Sid in the doorway, she blushed with pleasure. Then she saw Rhia. Her expression changed in an instant. As usual, Sid seemed happily unaware of his fiancée’s fluctuating tempers. Perhaps it was for the best. Rhia hovered in the doorway for a moment before she decided against entering the emporium. She waved to Grace and hurried away as though she had somewhere to go.

  She dawdled by a clothier’s window near Spitalfields, imagining a new dress made from a swathe of India green cashmere. She could not possibly afford to buy the cloth, of course, even if she were to sew it herself. If she didn’t find employment soon she would have to spend the last of her money on the passage home, and her goal of returning to Ireland victorious would remain a dream.

  When she walked back along the barren street where she’d seen the weavers through the window, Rhia felt ashamed of her desire. No doubt all of these shabby hutches housed families of outworkers, sewing, spinning or weaving around the clock just to make enough for their bread and tea. Yet their profession was at the bosom of the city’s prosperity. Ryan had once told her that more factories in the capital were dedicated to the manufacture of cloth than any other industry. The mill owner lived in Hampstead or Ealing and would be lunching on guinea fowl and claret, just as Rhia had at the Montgomerys’. She almost felt ashamed. She, friend to the Kellys, should never forget that the cloth that has the most ornate finish often has the roughest underside.

  Organza

  From All Hallows Eve onwards Londoners acquired a
cheerfulness rivalled only by the performance of a pantomime or a hanging. Antonia felt light-hearted as she hurried along with Rhia and Juliette, even though she no longer celebrated Christian festivals. Ceremony and ritual were obstructions between the pious and the divine. Still, how jolly that it was snowing on Christmas Eve, the soft flakes settling on Juliette’s black shawl and Rhia’s red hood. What a shame that photogenic drawings required stillness; it was not often that Regent Street looked whimsical.

  Rhia hadn’t wanted to come to the emporium, but Antonia urged her to be adventurous. She pointed out that Mr Montgomery might yet be interested in her designs and that busy men often needed to be reminded of their commitments.

  They arrived to find Mr Montgomery (in his shirtsleeves again) with Mr Beckwith behind the counter. A carafe of port wine and some gilt edged glasses sat on the countertop, which was decorated with branches of holly tied with white and gold ribbons. It was all very à la mode and made Antonia feel excessively plain and a little tired. Expensive-looking women glided amongst the displays in unwieldy crinolines. One of them was consulting Grace Elliot about something shimmery in myrtle green.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Blake. Miss Mahoney.’ Mr Montgomery’s smile was warm and welcoming and it cheered Antonia instantly. ‘Will you take an aperitif?’

  ‘A small one,’ she agreed. Why not? It was the season to be a little merry. She glanced at Rhia who looked like she’d sooner leave, but nodded. She had paused at a display near the counter, piled high with rolls of silk organza in the new pastels. Juliette, too, was hanging back, her head bent, not knowing where to look. It would embarrass her to stop with people she thought of as her betters, and this was precisely why Antonia wanted her to join in. If the Lord valued all of his children equally, there was simply no reason why a maid should not take a glass with a mercer.

  ‘Come, Juliette. It is Christmas.’

  Juliette took a step forward without lifting her eyes. As she did she knocked against the organza, piled so high that it took only the glance of an elbow to topple it.

  ‘Mercy me! I’m ever so sorry, Mr Montgomery, sir!’ Juliette dropped to her knees and tried to pick up one of the rolls, but it was too cumbersome. Rhia and Antonia bent to help her.

  In an instant Mr Montgomery was beside them. ‘It is no bother at all. Please don’t trouble yourselves, ladies.’ He pushed up his shirtsleeves and collected two or three of the rolls while Juliette was still on her hands and knees. Antonia stretched out her hand to help her to her feet. ‘Come, Juliette, they are too heavy.’ When Juliette stood, she was white and shaken and looked terrified. The girl really was an albatross at times. Antonia sighed. Forbearance seemed to have abandoned her, along with humility and modesty. She hoped that it was only grief and that her faith would, one day, be hers again.

  Mr Montgomery rearranged the display then rolled down his shirtsleeves. Mr Beckwith poured them each a glass, smiling timidly. Rhia was having a quiet word with Juliette, assuring her that although the organza looked delicate, it was as strong as sailcloth. Rhia was being commendably patient, considering Juliette’s unfriendliness and suspicion. Juliette could never before have met someone who looked like a changeling and laughed like a child.

  Antonia accepted a glass from Mr Beckwith, but he returned to his ledger and its perfect copperplate entries before she could think of some topic for conversation. She presumed that he had once been a clerk of some kind. She also presumed that Mr Beckwith’s fiscal talents were helping to keep the House of Montgomery’s doors open during the silver crisis. Mr Montgomery would have an annuity, of course, so it probably wouldn’t matter if he was trading at a loss. She knew nothing of his family and it would not do to ask, but his lineage was clearly aristocratic. His breeding was conspicuous in his elocution and manner, as it was in his address. When he came to stand beside Antonia his arm brushed against hers and her heart quickened. She suddenly couldn’t think of a thing to say, so she pretended to be interested in a display. Then she caught Rhia looking at the mercer with stony determination and braced herself.

  ‘I wonder if you’ve had the opportunity to consider my portfolio, Mr Montgomery?’ Rhia’s tone was cool and calm and Antonia was impressed in spite of herself.

  He didn’t hesitate. ‘I intend to, just as soon as the Christmas trade is behind us.’ He paused and glanced over to where Grace was hovering. ‘Miss Elliot leaves in February, and I will be looking for an assistant. Would you consider joining us in January with a view to replacing her?’

  If he’d simply forgotten about the portfolio, then he had evaded the fact expertly, and Antonia couldn’t think less of him for it. His compromise sounded reasonable.

  ‘As a shop girl?’

  ‘An assistant, yes. It would be a starting point, I thought, and while it is quiet, there is room at the back for you to get on with work on our new collection!’

  ‘I will certainly consider it.’ Rhia smiled graciously enough, but Antonia could see that she was disappointed. Grace was loitering close by, fussing over the organza display. She looked as unhappy as Rhia about the proposal, and Juliette was biting her cuticles. It was time to leave.

  They collected their sack of remnants and waited in the queue at the Piccadilly cabstand. Everywhere Antonia looked, people seemed invigorated by the prospect of the one day in the year when even shopkeepers closed their shutters. She felt envious, which surprised her. Were Josiah here she would barely have noticed the festivities. Which is why she had invited Isaac for Christmas dinner and then, as an afterthought, she’d asked Laurence if his friend Mr Dillon might like to come also.

  They were finally the first in line for a hansom and, when they climbed inside they all sank gratefully into the cracked leather seats. Rhia looked preoccupied. Juliette, though no longer quite so drawn, was still biting her nails. A diversion was needed. ‘I was thinking earlier about making a photogenic drawing of the street scene,’ Antonia said.

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea!’ Rhia’s eyes lit up. ‘Is it possible?’

  Juliette looked from one to the other of them suspiciously.

  ‘Not unless everyone on the street were standing very still, I’m afraid. A pity. Do you remember the portrait I took of the gentlemen in the garden, Juliette?’

  The maid nodded. ‘The one that looks like plain paper, you mean?’ she mumbled sullenly. It seemed that nothing would shake her from her gloom. Antonia persisted all the same. She’d once tried to explain the photogenic process to her maid, hoping that she would take an interest; that it might elevate her, but she had only seemed superstitious.

  ‘Yes, but when I expose it, the gentlemen who stood so still in the garden that day will appear on the page.’

  ‘As if by the hand of a ghostly painter,’ Rhia added. Juliette threw her a dark look, then shrugged as though she couldn’t care less. ‘My ma always liked to see a portrait, though we never could afford to have one made.’

  ‘Photogenic drawing has already reached the colonies, so it is possible even your mother has encountered it. Laurence has a colleague in Sydney, and it is immensely popular with the naturalists who are cataloguing the flora there,’ Antonia continued. ‘In fact, Mr Fox Talbot is a botanist himself.’

  Juliette looked fleetingly interested in this, then turned her gaze to the window.

  Lawn

  It was a relief to be back home and away from Mrs Blake’s chatter about her queer portraits, not to mention all the happy Christmas crowds. The season was ever more popular since they’d banned the rat pits and bear baiting. For once Juliette was glad to have so much work to do. If she didn’t occupy her hands soon, her stupid head would probably swell with all the thoughts in it, like something in a freak show. There was much to be done before she and Beth could leave for their three-day holiday. Mrs Blake had insisted on three days, which was kind because one was all that was expected. And she was going to cook Christmas dinner herself! Juliette had never seen Mrs Blake cook anything more than a slice of toast. />
  They scraped the grease off from the stovetop, and rinsed out the oven with vinegar and water, spreading damp tea leaves across the cinders so that the ashes would not settle on the newly clean range. They brushed black lead onto the brass and then rubbed it off with dry leather. When the grates shone, and the fenders and irons, Beth put her plump forearms into a tub of flour up to the elbow in preparation to make beef pudding and Juliette went to the washhouse.

  She lit the fire beneath the copper and put the linen on to boil, then put ivory black on the three pairs of sensible boots that were waiting in a row.

  The idea wouldn’t go away.

  It would be a shameless thing to do – was she bold enough? The feeling of it spread through her as she worked, filthy as a cloud of cinders, until it almost choked her. She tried to get the better of it by brushing Mrs Blake’s boots harder and harder, but she only became breathless. Finally, she dropped the brush and then the boot and bent over double on her stool, almost gagging to keep from wailing. She took a square of lawn from her apron pocket and stuffed it into her mouth, trying not to make a commotion. Beth and Mrs Blake already thought her insensible. As for the Irish witch, well, who knew what she thought. She could be up to anything with those eyes, black and deep as two hellholes. Could she know? And what she’d said in the cab, about the ghostly painter was too awful. She must know.

  They must never ever know about this new idea, though. They would think her wicked and mad, and maybe she was – how could she think such a thing otherwise. Juliette took a big breath, picked up the brush and the boot from the stone floor, and wondered yet again how such a thing could have climbed into her head. Maybe it was ‘the light’ – that wretched light that Mrs Blake was always on about. For Juliette, light was just a gas lamp, a candle flame, morning creeping through the window, nothing more or less.