A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  Jenny shook her head. ‘In the first place, the house isn’t ours to change ‒’

  ‘Good heavens! You mean it’s only rented?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s … that’s … I took it for granted it was ours!’

  ‘Well, I hope it will be, some day soon. I instituted a special fund, putting money aside to buy the house. Quite soon, I hope, it will be ours.’

  ‘But we own the mill?’

  ‘No, that too is only rented.’

  Lucy’s unguarded face was a study. Her forget-me-not blue eyes were hard with anger, her mouth was a thin line, her fair brows were drawn together in a shadowy line. ‘Ned never told me that! I thought you owned everything!’

  ‘There’s no need to own it, Lucy. That isn’t good business. It’s better to rent and then, if we want to expand, we can move to bigger premises. We haven’t been in production here long, you see. We still have a long way to go.’ She rose, to come and stand looking down at her sister-in-law. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy. There’s plenty of money and in time you’ll settle down to the life we lead. It’s not like Edinburgh, I admit ‒ but you can make it very agreeable once you come to terms with it.’

  She put a friendly hand on Lucy’s shoulder. She very much wanted the girl to feel that she understood her frustration and disappointment. The Corvills weren’t what she expected; she’d perhaps pictured a grand country estate, a fleet of footmen, entertaining in candle-lit halls. Everything was on a smaller, more workaday scale. But it could be a happy setting for her, if she could only accept it.

  Lucy got up. Jenny sensed that she did so to avoid her touch. She thought, She dislikes me. It was a revelation.

  She drew back, but hid her startled realisation under a friendly smile as she showed her out. A hackney had been called for her. It was waiting on the paved yard outside. She helped her in, waved as it drew away. Lucy didn’t wave back.

  She really dislikes me, thought Jenny, as she went back to her work. Why? I’ve never given her the slightest hint that I know her real background. I’ve kept her secret, taken her at face value, tried to be friends. Why should she dislike me so much that she draws away from my touch?

  For the next few days the question kept recurring. In the end she thought she understood. Lucy was envious of her. She had come to Galashiels as the bride of a rich young cloth-maker, expecting to take over the running of his house and to see him running his business. She had expected to be queen of her castle.

  But that role was already filled. Jenny Corvill was in command at the mill and, through her mother who did little without consulting her, at Gatesmuir.

  Jenny’s first impulse was one of irritation. Let her get on with it, she thought. We’re not what she was hoping for ‒ too bad.

  Yet in a day or two basic good nature was making her rethink the situation. How would she feel in Lucy’s place?

  Brought up in a city where something was always going on, where cheap entertainment was everywhere, educated by a mother who probably filled her head with silly notions … And then trapped in a family whose head felt that even a simple evening game of cards had something sinful in it, in a town still lacking many of the amenities taken for granted in the capital ‒ nowhere to go except to visit the same people, nothing to do except walk or drive along country roads …

  Jenny said to her mother, ‘I get the feeling Lucy finds life pretty dull. Could you do something to include her in the swing of things more?’

  ‘Well, dear,’ said Millicent with a little frown, ‘I did ask her to join the Ladies Charitable Sewing Circle so we could get the flannel shirts finished before the cold weather ‒’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ Jenny stifled her laughter. ‘That’s not the kind of thing that would appeal to Lucy.’

  ‘I don’t know why not, dear. The poor appreciate it so and we have such good chat while we work ‒’

  ‘No, no, I meant something that’s more fun. The St Andrew’s Day party, for instance.’

  ‘Yes, the one we’re having the musicians from Peebles ‒’

  ‘Could you let Lucy choose the flowers, decide on the food?’

  ‘But, my pet, I can do it twice as quickly as Lucy. She takes so long to make up her mind about anything.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Mother. It would be a kindness to give her something to do that she might really enjoy.’

  Unfortunately when Millicent handed the task over to Lucy, she told her daughter-in-law it was at Jenny’s suggestion. Lucy at once felt she was being patronised. From being simply bored and restless, she became angry. Who did they think they were, this bunch of country mice? Just because they’d been lucky with their stupid tartans, and nobody of any taste would ever think them so wonderful, they were nothing compared with French cloth like velours or gaberdine.

  Worse was to come. A letter arrived from Buckingham Palace, inviting a member of the firm of Corvill and Son to attend on a matter of business at three o’clock on 8th January 1858, if convenient.

  ‘Ned must go,’ Lucy said at once, when the letter was read out with surprise and acclamation at the Gatesmuir breakfast table.

  ‘Me?’ said Ned. The idea didn’t appeal, especially since he had a headache due to too much whisky the night before. A long train journey … bowing and scraping before some royal secretary …

  ‘Well,’ mused William, ‘you see it says “on a matter of business” and, as it happens, Ned hasn’t come to grips with the business yet.’

  ‘Good gracious, they’re not going to discuss how to run a cloth mill!’ Lucy cried. ‘They just want to look at patterns of tartan to dress up the children again, that’s all.’

  ‘Jenny ought to go,’ Ned said. ‘Jenny knows how to go about it ‒ she went to Balmoral.’

  ‘It’s a long way,’ Mrs Corvill lamented. ‘A very tiring journey ‒’

  ‘Not if you stay overnight in Edinburgh on the way. Ned, we could both go. I should so much enjoy ‒’

  ‘Whoever goes,’ William went on, following his own thoughts regardless of his daughter-in-law’s fervent interventions, ‘ought to take the opportunity of calling in on Wilson.’

  ‘Who’s Wilson?’

  ‘Our factor in London, Lucy.’

  Lucy was just as much at a loss as before. She had no idea what a factor did.

  ‘I agree it would be a good idea to meet him face to face,’ Jenny said, speaking for the first time since exclaiming in pleasure over the invitation. ‘I think he’s been behaving a wee bit trickily for a while now.’

  ‘The man’s a villain,’ William said. ‘It’s time someone saw him and told him outright that the price he’s buying at is daylight robbery.’

  ‘What price is he paying?’ asked Ned.

  ‘There you are,’ said his father, ‘that’s the point, lad, you don’t even know, so clearly you’re not the right person to speak to him. And as for me …’ he sighed. ‘I’ve no mind to go to a place like London. I hear it’s even worse than Edinburgh for show and vanity.’

  So in the end it was decided, to Lucy’s great chagrin, that Jenny must go.

  This time, as befitted her station, she would take their lady’s maid with her as escort. This was another matter to make Lucy sulk. Mrs Corvill might manage very well without Baird to do her hair, but in the few months since her marriage Lucy had become accustomed to having someone else do all the wearisome chores that went with an elegant turn-out.

  If Jenny were to be in London on 8th January it meant leaving Galashiels on the 6th. Christmas and New Year behind them, it was time to make preparations for the trip. First of all, a new and very smart pattern book must be prepared in case the royal family wished to see some samples. Then some sketches of designs for next winter, not yet in production, must be mounted on board.

  ‘You’re fair busy,’ Ronald Armstrong commented as he came into Jenny’s office for a discussion of heather shades for the next dye vat. ‘Did the letter actually say they wanted to look at new designs?’
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  ‘No, it simply said a matter of business. But I feel I’d better take a few things … Mr Armstrong, what do you think of this?’ She held out a water-colour design of grey and white on black paper.

  ‘Mournful.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s for gentlemen’s suiting.’

  ‘For a mournful gentleman.’

  ‘I wondered if I should take it? It might interest HRH for London wear.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think that’s in prospect, mistress. As far as the Palace is concerned, Corvill and Son are great for the tartan. I don’t think they’re asking you to call so they can talk about gentlemen’s suiting.’ He paused. ‘How long d’you think you’ll be gone, Mistress Corvill?’

  ‘A week? Not much more. Why?’

  ‘I’m going to try out the new German blues in the dye vat. I thought you’d like to see them.’

  ‘They’ll still be here when I get back, surely? The samples, I mean.’

  ‘I usually throw out the poor results.’

  ‘Well, this time keep them,’ she said, puzzled. ‘A few hanks of yarn won’t take up much room.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘It’s just that you’re usually here … Ah well, if you’re happy with this heather shade I’ll away to my work.’

  She shook her head as the door closed on him. It wasn’t like Ronald Armstrong to be hanging about asking for opinions.

  Still, it was good to know that she’d be missed …

  Archie Brunton’s reaction to the news was even more positive. ‘Going to London?’ he exclaimed. ‘Good heavens, why on earth doesn’t Ned go?’

  ‘Because Ned knows nothing about anything and we can’t make fools of ourselves at the Palace.’

  Archie scowled. It was true that Ned paid no heed to the mills, as Archie knew only too well, because it was with Archie that Ned spent a lot of his time. The two of them would be off together, meeting companions in Selkirk, fishing for salmon at Berwick on Tweed, going to the races.

  ‘I don’t think it’s seemly,’ he said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘A woman shouldn’t be travelling about the country doing business ‒ it’s not right.’

  ‘Archie, I’m not going to “travel about the country”. I’m making a trip to London at the request of the royal family.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t expect a woman to represent the firm ‒’

  ‘They may very well. I represented us before, when I went to Balmoral.’

  ‘You went?’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d heard about it. When we sold them the first piece of tartan.’

  He was very put out. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of it,’ he remarked, his expression mirroring the bewildered exasperation he felt.

  ‘No, I hope not. There’s no reason. In general we deal through the factor, like everyone else. This is different, though. A royal summons!’ She was trying to make it sound playful. ‘I hope I shall always be ready to answer a royal command.’

  ‘Always?’ he echoed. There was a pause. ‘You’re not thinking of … being concerned in the business … all your life?’

  All at once there was a great question hanging in the air above them. It was something she had always avoided thinking about when she considered her life as a married woman.

  If Archie asked her, she was going to say yes. She had put too much time and energy into catching him, and had known something like despair when Ned’s extraordinary marriage almost wrecked things. Lucy had been gingerly inspected by Archie’s mother, and Jenny knew it had been touch and go whether Mrs Brunton would accept her.

  In the end, however, good sense had prevailed. Lucy might not be quite what she pretended to be, but she made a good enough impression, was very anxious to please, and, after all, Mrs Brunton’s only son need have very little to do with her once he was married to Jenny.

  So everything resumed as before. Archie often spoke as if it were a matter of course that he and Jenny would be living at the Mains by and by. All that was needed was a positive declaration.

  That had been put off, partly because Archie couldn’t bring himself to give up his freedom and partly because Jenny didn’t want to drive him to the final word. Though in her own view being married need not stop her from carrying on her role as the controlling genius of Corvill and Son, she knew instinctively Archie wouldn’t agree.

  Now the question hovered. And she felt she ought to say at least something to make her views clear.

  ‘I can’t foresee a time when I wouldn’t be interested in the business, Archie. You know it’s my designs that we use, mostly. I would always want to take part in the designing if nothing else. And since I am good at the financial side, it seems silly not to ‒’

  ‘But surely Ned,’ said Archie, choosing his words, ‘Ned is going to take over?’

  She made a sound, half a laugh and half a sigh. ‘Do you see any signs of it?’

  ‘Well, I … I took it for granted. He’s the heir, after all.’

  ‘Quite true. But he seems to have no interest in business.’

  ‘He could always put in a manager.’

  ‘Yes. That was what we intended, at first. Only, you see, I’m good at it.’

  ‘But it’s so unsuitable!’

  ‘I think most people are quite used to it by now, Archie. They don’t see anything wrong in it.’

  ‘But that’s only because you’re Miss Corvill. If … if things changed … What I mean is, if you married, you could hardly go on in the same way.’

  She said nothing. She almost held her breath. If she were to utter the words that had sprung to her lips she’d have said, ‘It’s my firm. I made it what it is. Why should I give it up just to suit the conventions?’ But one wrong word now and Archie would go away. And perhaps he wouldn’t come back.

  For the moment they let it lie. But she could tell, during the next few days, that he was displeased with her.

  London proved overwhelming at first. As she and Baird walked in the wake of the porter out of the station, the noise and activity outside almost made Jenny recoil. Baird, however, was made of sterner stuff. She’d seen London before. A widow, neat in person, plain in speech, she’d been with a shipping merchant’s family in Glasgow before her marriage. With them she had travelled to London, she knew good hotels and respectable restaurants.

  A hackney took them to the Hyde Park Hotel, near Marble Arch. On the drive there, Jenny thought they would collide with other vehicles, the roads were so crowded. The day was very cold, the horses slid on the icy cobbles, the drivers swore at each other and used their whips. ‘Heaven preserve us,’ muttered Jenny. Her maid smiled grimly. It was worse, she recalled, at morning and evening.

  But the hotel itself pleased Jenny; spacious, well-carpeted, full of palms in highly polished brass containers. Her little suite of rooms had a beautiful view of the park. She sank into an armchair with thankfulness. From here, it would be a pleasure to look out in the morning. She might almost believe she was at home in her own bedroom gazing out at the lower slopes of Meigle Hill.

  She spent the next morning having her hair done at a fashionable salon in Belgrave Street. When the hairdresser stepped back, curling tongs swinging loose, hand raised in appeal, Jenny had to admit she looked rather fine. It seemed almost a pity to hide the effect under the fur-trimmed bonnet called for by the January weather.

  Baird made her eat a light lunch in the suite. ‘Now, now, my lass, you have to eat something. I ken fine you feel too high-strung at the thought of going to the Palace but you’ll likely faint if you don’t have something in your stomach.’

  True enough. She felt faint every time she thought of the prospect. But at a quarter after two she went downstairs to the private carriage she had ordered, stepped inside in her fur wrap and her new gown of dark blue plaid, and was on her way.

  The carriage driver knew what was expected. She’d thought she’d go bowling in at the main entrance but no, he took her to the side. There the carri
age went in as at a stable yard, drove between short rows of buildings where other carriages could be glimpsed, and drew up at a door which, for a side entrance, was stately enough. She gave her name, saying ‒ quite accurately this time ‒ that she was expected.

  ‘From Corvill and Son, quite so. Please to wait.’ She was ushered into a room with chairs and some periodicals on a table, with a stand on which she could leave her fur wrap and bonnet. After a short pause she was conducted along a corridor, through what looked like a main hall, up some stairs, along a mile of corridor, and asked once more to wait. She sat on the edge of a crimson plush chair, clutching the portfolio of patterns to her chest. Lunch or no lunch, she felt faint.

  The footman returned. ‘Her Majesty will see you now.’

  Jenny rose, then sat down again. ‘Her Majesty?’

  ‘Certainly. This way.’

  ‘But … but … I thought I would see a secretary, or an official?’

  The footman gave a very faint shrug. ‘Her Majesty is waiting,’ he said.

  With shaking knees Jenny got up again to follow him.

  The room into which she was shown had large windows letting in the cold light of the January afternoon. The Queen was sitting in a chair with a low padded back, and had before her a sloping table on which a sketchbook lay. In her hand was a charcoal pencil.

  She looked round as Jenny was shown in.

  ‘Miss Corvill, Ma’am.’

  ‘Miss Corvill, please come in. How do you do?’

  Jenny curtseyed, the room wavering around her as she did so. She was relieved to find she could regain her upright posture without swaying about. Her heart was going like a carding-engine.

  She was face to face with the Queen of England!

  Victoria wore a warm dress of fine brown wool checked with white, and a white woollen shawl so fine it looked like lace. Her hair was plainly dressed, parted in the middle with ringlets at the side. A white lace cap set near the back of her head echoed the soft white of the shawl. Her only ornaments were a jewelled watch hanging from a lover’s knot bow on her bodice, and the wedding and engagement rings on her left hand.