‘Yes, Your Highness, on behalf of my father.’ She heard her voice trembling with the anxiety of the moment. She must get a grip on herself. This, after all, was what she had come for. ‘I brought with me, sir, some very fine cloth. If you’d permit me to show it to you I’d be very honoured.’
The long pale face was smiling indulgently. ‘Please do so, Miss Corvill.’
She couldn’t tell whether he was genuinely interested or simply being kind. She untied the tape on her parcel, folded back the paper, and with a flourish swept out the length of cloth.
It flashed momentarily in the lamplight as it fell across her arm. Red ‒ scarlet ‒ with black and azure blue across it, and white threads, and a touch of yellow. The bright tartan of the Royal Stewarts, the pattern she knew so well laid out on her father’s loom: black, white, black, yellow, black, azure, red, azure, and so on, back to the four black threads that ended the check.
But woven exquisitely fine, exquisitely small. The tartan was here in miniature, rippling in folds across her arm.
‘Your Highness,’ she said, pride in her voice, ‘my father heard you would be wanting fine tartans for your new castle at Balmoral, so he sends you a sample that perhaps you might like.’
She waited. The Prince leaned forward, took a fold of the cloth between his fingers.
‘Why … it’s wool!’
‘Yes, sir. But so fine you could thread it through a wedding ring.’
He shook his head in wonder. ‘But this is beautiful! Miss Corvill, I am very pleased you came.’
Chapter Two
For Jenny the next quarter of an hour passed in a haze of delight. The Prince admired the cloth, remarking that it was just the kind of thing he had been hoping to find for the bedhangings and curtains of the royal bedroom. Everyone nodded approval. His Royal Highness signalled to a secretary to make a note that fifty yards should be ordered at once with the option to order more should it be required.
He then inquired kindly into the circumstances of Jenny’s family.
‘My father and brother are the websters, sir ‒ the weavers, I mean. My father sometimes hires others in our community ‒ we’re Huguenots, sir ‒ from France by way of London and Norwich, but we’ve been in Edinburgh more than a hundred years now.’
Prince Albert was extremely interested. Items of historical note always caught his attention, and this was about Protestant refugees, originally forced to flee from France by religious persecution in the seventeenth century. Anything to do with the Protestant religion pleased the Prince; he was from a staunch Protestant principality.
‘The Huguenots ‒ ah yes ‒ an admirable people, respectable and industrious. What a boon they have been to this country, gentlemen,’ he remarked, glancing around at his entourage. They looked attentive, awaiting the little lecture he was sure to give. ‘Louis Fourteenth, you know ‒ he revoked the Edict of Nantes which had granted them the right to follow the Protestant religion. So they were driven out of France in ‒ what? ‒ 1680?’
‘1685, Your Highness,’ Jenny murmured automatically. To her it was an old, old story, scarcely worth remembering except that it was sometimes useful in gaining customers. The Huguenot communities had the reputation of being sober, hard-working, reliable. People ordering goods liked to think that the work would be done well and to time.
The Prince talked on for a few minutes, giving the party the benefit of his knowledge of the politics of France in the late seventeenth century. Jenny, who knew it all, let her thoughts go back to the main point. An order for fifty yards from the royal family! And with an option to order more! It had been worth all the argument, all the effort.
Her father had been most unwilling to make the attempt. Oh, not to weave the cloth ‒ anything fine and unusual was a challenge to his skill. But when she said she wanted to offer it to Their Majesties, he was aghast.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, girl? Approach the Queen?’
‘And why not, may I ask? It’s all the talk, how they adore everything to do with the Highlands. The scenery, and the pipe music, and deer-stalking ‒ everything! And you’ve seen the photographs and paintings of them in the Highland clothes ‒ the little Prince in full fig ‒ why shouldn’t we offer them the tartan?’
‘But we’ve never done such a thing before.’
‘That’s no reason not to. There’s nothing to be afraid of ‒ they can’t throw us in the Tower of London for offering them a bolt of cloth.’
Her mother intervened. ‘Jenny, that’s no way to speak to your father.’
‘What way? What way am I speaking? I’m only telling him not to be afraid ‒’
‘Your father’s not afraid ‒’
‘Yes I am, Millicent, mortal afraid. The very thought of weaving something fit for the Queen frightens me.’
‘You mean you think you’re a poor weaver?’ asked his daughter.
His head came up in unconscious pride. ‘No one would dare to say that to me!’
‘You think that piece of tartan is really good?’
‘It’s the finest thing I’ve ever woven. When I set up the merino threads, I thought then, they’re spun fine as a spider’s web, and I knew …’ his voice became dreamy ‘… I knew it would be a beautiful piece of cloth.’
His pale lined face was peaceful as he thought of the bright plaid stretched on his loom. He had forgotten that it was all Jenny’s idea.
Weavers sometimes bought thread for making cloth and sometimes had it spun by members of their own family. On this occasion, Jenny, ordering woollen yarn from a spinner in the village of Cramond to the north of Edinburgh, had seen some very fine merino ready-dyed and on the purn.
‘What’s yon?’ she inquired.
‘Ach, you don’t want to bother about that. It’s far too fine a thread for any practical purpose, Miss Corvill. I was asked to make it by a merchant who bought some merino wool in the fleece, him with a great idea to do something special with it and sell it to the big Yorkshire mills. But he couldn’t find enough spinners to make it in quantity and he’s pushed for money so he’s no wanting it now, and I’m left with it taking up space on my shelves and after the expense of the dyeing!’
‘Is it yours to sell, Mrs Hunter?’
Mrs Hunter pricked up her ears. ‘Are you yourself interested in it, Miss Corvill?’
‘Well …’ It had already passed through her mind more than once that her father could weave any of the well-known tartan designs better than many she had seen in the merchants’ warehouses. He, however, only set up work to order on his looms, work that had already been seen as a sample by the customer and was known to be wanted.
But this very fine thread, running like silk through her fingers … And the colours, so pure and clean. She looked at them, picturing in her mind the setting-up for one of the dozen or so famous tartans, now so unexpectedly fashionable because the royal family liked them.
Red, light blue, black, white … She saw it on the web in her mind’s eye. All the colours were there for the Stewart check except yellow. ‘Have you any of this thread in pale yellow?’
Mrs Hunter shook her head. But seeing that this customer was genuinely interested she said quickly, ‘I can get the dyer to mix some, and I’ve some of the yarn undyed ‒ it would be no trouble to do it. That’s if you have the firm mind to buy it, Miss Corvill.’
Jenny did sums in her head. So much yarn available, so many bobbins to be wound for the warp, so much for the weft. What was here on Mrs Hunter’s shelves would make ‒ what ‒ six ‘pieces’ of about fifty yards.
It was fine merino wool, from Spain. The cost would be high. It was a terrible gamble. But if she could talk her father into it ‒ and he would be pleased and charmed by the challenge ‒ he would make a cloth of surpassing fineness. And if he made that, who else should have it but the royal family?
She made a provisional bargain with Mrs Hunter, that the yellow was to be dyed in the yarn and made ready for her inspection. She would be back in t
hree days’ time to clinch the deal.
The sample yarns she took with her were enough to catch her father in the snare. He wanted to see the threads wound for his loom. Almost before she’d finished explaining he was sitting down with pen and paper to draw the check as small as it ought to be for such a fine thread. A Stewart tartan in miniature, the surface of the cloth glinting with scarlet and azure blue, the handle of it soft as silk …
He was really happy only when he was at his loom. For William Corvill, life was a constant struggle. Though he made a good living and was well regarded in the small Huguenot colony of Edinburgh, he was always in apprehension.
He and his family were ‘different’. Though they had been in this little enclave, the Dean Village, since the middle of the last century, the Huguenots had never quite been accepted. The children were sometimes set upon by street hooligans, names were called after them as they came from their little stone church by the river bank. Their clothes were too dark, their rules were too strict, they disapproved of whisky, they never came out to dance in the streets at Hogmanay.
Yet his daughter was now urging him to be even more ‘different’, to make the attempt to gain royal patronage with this piece of cloth he’d been tempted by pride into making.
‘We can at least write, Father,’ she begged. ‘What harm can that do? If they don’t want to see the cloth all they have to do is refuse.’
Her brother Ned wrote the actual letter. Ned was a scholar, far too clever to be cooped up in a weaver’s shed. Many weavers were cultured men, because the long hours at the loom alone tempted them to have a book by their side. But Ned was exceptional. It was one of his great dreams, shared only by Jenny, that one day he would get away from the loom to study at university.
The letter merely stated that the firm of William Corvill and Son had produced a particularly fine length of tartan which they begged to have the honour of showing to His Royal Highness on his forthcoming visit to Balmoral. It suggested the attendance of a member of the Corvill family on the afternoon of the 12th September and was signed, ‘Your humble and faithful servant, Wm. Corvill.’
When no reply came, William was not surprised. ‘I told you,’ he muttered, ‘it was an impertinent and foolish thing. What would they be doing with the likes of us? No, no, when they buy the tartan, they buy it from the big firms ‒’
‘That’s not true, they bought Macleod tartan from a woman in a cottage, Father ‒ it said so in the Aberdeen paper. And I’m not surprised they didn’t reply ‒ why would they, when they have it there in front of them that we’re coming? If they didn’t want us, they’d write and say so.’
The discussion went on for days. But by the day before they must start on their journey to Balmoral, Jenny had worn down her father into agreement. He himself would not go ‒ no, a team of wild horses wouldn’t have dragged him to the train. Jenny was to represent them, because Jenny was the one with all the business sense and the least likely to miss the train connections. But of course Ned must go with her. It would be inconceivable to let a young woman travel from Edinburgh to Balmoral by herself.
Jenny was both pleased and displeased by the result. She wanted to represent her family on this great occasion. She accepted that she must have an escort. But she was very worried about Ned, because she knew something that her parents didn’t even suspect.
Ned was addicted to drink.
The secret was well kept because she knew it would break her father’s heart. He himself was not a total abstainer but the occasional glass of wine in which he toasted his French forebears was regarded as a great indulgence. Spirits he abhorred, and with good reason. Cheap bad whisky was the bane of Scotland. Drunkenness was one of the great problems in the weaving trade.
Ned, at twenty, was two years Jenny’s senior. He had always been the leader in their childhood escapades. As a little girl she adored him, but as she grew older she began to grow aware of his faults.
He was clever, and he knew it. His mind ranged out and beyond anything the rest of his family could follow ‒ his family and indeed the rest of the Huguenot community.
‘There are other people in the world worth knowing, besides Huguenots,’ he would grumble, when little parties or outings were planned.
‘Aye, mebbe so,’ nodded William, ‘but I prefer those that are familiar to me, lad.’
Ned took to slipping off in his free time so as to mingle with the students at Edinburgh University. His father would have been horrified to know that these young men were generally to be found in the public houses in closes off the High Street. Many a long and interesting conversation Ned had with his student friends when the light had faded enough to make work impossible. Many a long conversation turned into a drinking session.
So far he had been able to conceal his failing. He managed on the whole to get home in good enough condition and if he had a headache next morning, well, headaches were common enough among weavers, due to the rattle of the loom.
Once he had come home very late. Jenny, lying awake for him, had opened the door and after taking off his boots, helped him up the steep little staircase to his room. Next morning she had tried to get him up and dressed, but the after-effects of the whisky were so bad he could hardly raise his head.
That was the first time she actually lied for him. ‘He had an accident yesterday evening,’ she told her mother. ‘That’s why he was so late home, he had a fall in Moray Place ‒’
‘A fall? Is he badly hurt? Should we call the doctor?’ Her mother turned from the fire she was coaxing into life for the morning porridge.
‘No, no, but he’s cut his forehead.’ Now the cuts and bruises were nicely explained. ‘One of his college friends looked after him and saw him home when he felt better ‒’
‘But a blow to the head, Jenny ‒ that could be serious.’
Mrs Corvill hurried up to her son’s room. He was sitting up in bed, looking in all conscience pale and ill. She pressed him back among his pillows, brought him a cold compress, and was only restrained from calling Dr Bethune by the fact that at ten o’clock Ned was visibly improving.
‘A slight concussion,’ she sighed to her husband, when he complained that his son was away from his loom in the weaving shed. ‘One day away from work, William ‒ surely you can allow him that?’
William was no slave driver though he worked hard himself and expected others to do the same. Besides, Jenny had no spinning to occupy her at the moment ‒ she could take her brother’s place.
The parents were too innocent to recognise the after-effects of a drinking bout. Moreover, it was the last thing they expected from a member of their family. And so Ned’s secret was safe, and had been unsuspected for nearly two years.
The thought of having him as her escort for a two-day trip away from home worried Jenny. And all the more so when, naturally, her father handed the funds for the journey to Ned. He was the man of the party, the escort; he must look after the money. But luckily both parents came to see them off at the railway station, so the return tickets at least were safely bought.
But the rest had gone on drink. It was too good an opportunity to miss: two days away from home, away from the eyes of his parents.
That was why Jenny had had to leave her brother at Crathie village. He was too drunk to come any further.
Dismissed now by His Royal Highness, she was delivered to Captain Prentiss to escort to Aboyne. There was a mail train at just after midnight, and since the unpredictable weather had turned fine, the drive of twenty-seven miles might be neatly accomplished in time for her to catch it.
‘Thank you, Your Royal Highness,’ she said, with her best curtsey.
‘I wish you a safe journey home,’ he said in his Germanic English. ‘When will the tartan be ready?’
‘In about three weeks, sir.’
‘I shall be gone by then, but Captain Prentiss, whom you have become acquainted with, will be here. Send the parcels direct to him. Prentiss, you will see the upholsterer gets the
cloth for the bed furniture as soon as it is delivered?’
‘Certainly, sir. In fact, I will go to Edinburgh to see all goes well with the weaving.’
‘Excellent, excellent. Goodbye, Miss Corvill.’
It appeared that no special orders needed to be given: carriages were always at the ready for royal use. A four-wheeled dogcart, suitable for the Highland roads, was awaiting Captain Prentiss when they came out into the fresh clear evening.
He handed her up and took the reins. He gave her a smile, only faintly visible in the lights of the carriage.
‘Ready?’ She nodded, sparkling with delight at the thrill of riding in a vehicle of the royal household. ‘Then it’s hey for Aboyne?’
‘Yes ‒ no ‒ we must pick up my brother in Crathie first.’
That was a blow. He’d forgotten about the sickly brother. He’d been looking forward to a flirtatious drive, perhaps a pause in some quiet spot under the stars, a few more of those delicious kisses. But with a brother along, and a Huguenot at that … The Prince’s little homily about the Huguenots had surprised him ‒ Miss Corvill hadn’t struck him as particularly reserved or staid.
He drew up by the post office in Crathie, opposite the iron bridge. It was the most likely place to find him, the natural stopping place. But there was no one there.
‘I left him sheltering from the drizzle under the clump of birches …’
Unwilling, he got down. But as he was about to set off down the road to the birches, the door of the post office opened. Light streamed out from a lamp held high.
‘Who’s there?’
‘I’m looking for a Mr Corvill ‒’
‘Oh, aye, come along in, but we were expecting a Miss Corvill?’
‘I’m here,’ Jenny called, jumping down unaided. She ran round the dogcart and in at the door under the raised arm of the postmaster.
Her brother was lying along a bench inside the stone-floored office. His eyes were closed.
‘Has he had an attack?’ asked Bobby in alarm.
‘Oh aye,’ said the postmaster, pulling his sandy whiskers. ‘He’s been taken by a weakness in the legs.’
A Web of Dreams Page 3
