A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Well, Miss Corvill, you see me making good use of a little spare time. Do you draw, my dear?’

  ‘Er, not to say draw … I … er, design the checks and tartans made by our firm.’

  ‘Ah, so it is to you that we owe so many delightful patterns? How interesting. I see you have brought a sketchbook. Sit down. Miss Rowland, settle Miss Corvill.’

  A young lady, unnoticed until now, stepped forward. She set a chair for Jenny, who thankfully sank down. Miss Rowland took the pattern book from Jenny’s hands to take to the Queen.

  Victoria laid the book on top of her own on the table, opened it, and glanced through the patterns until she came to the water-colour designs on board at the back. ‘Ah yes, I see, so that is how it is done? And then the patterns are tried out on the loom?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. My father makes a sample piece on a handloom.’

  ‘And the thread ‒ how do you decide on the thread? I am interested, you know, Miss Corvill. I am a spinster ‒ a spinner ‒ myself.’ She nodded towards a corner. To Jenny’s surprise, a spinning wheel stood there, its well-used wood gleaming in the light from the bright fire. ‘A very soothing occupation,’ Victoria said, with a faint smile.

  ‘A great change from affairs of state, Ma’am,’ Jenny said, greatly daring.

  ‘Not so different, my dear! Deftness and patience ‒ those are things of great use in statecraft. Well, now, these designs are delightful, but it wasn’t for this that I asked you to come.’ She paused. ‘To tell the truth, I expected someone older. How old are you, Miss Corvill?’

  ‘Twenty-one, Your Majesty.’

  The Queen tilted her head. She didn’t say, How does it come about that a girl of twenty-one is the representative of an important weaving firm? For she herself had been in charge of the entire country from an even younger age.

  ‘Miss Rowland, please bring the drawings.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The lady-in-waiting went to a bureau, opened it, and took out a large envelope. She brought it to Jenny.

  As Jenny opened the envelope the Queen said, ‘We’ve seen some very fine tartans in the Highlands, worn by tenants and gamekeepers ‒ particularly that worn by the employees of the Countess of Seafield.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Jenny, ‘the Glenurquart …’

  ‘There are others.’

  ‘Yes, what are known as the District Checks ‒ not belonging to a clan and not for dress occasions.’

  ‘What we might call workaday tartans, more like the shepherds’ plaid of the Borders.’

  ‘Exactly, Ma’am.’ By this time Jenny had the contents out of the envelope. There were two designs, one large, one small, done in crayon on cartridge paper.

  The check was unusual, rather dignified and subdued, but handsome. The background was grey, the main square was black, with lesser lines of grey and black, all overchecked with thin lines of tan.

  ‘Ma’am, this is a very good design,’ Jenny said, without pausing to think.

  To her amazement, Victoria coloured and smiled with delight. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Very fine! It would be very good for indoor wear, but also, on a hillside, it would fade into a stony background ‒ excellent for a stalker. I take it one of the ghillies made this?’

  ‘I am very pleased with your verdict, Miss Corvill. My husband designed that himself.’

  ‘The Prince?’

  ‘Yes, he takes a great interest in applied art. He and I have felt for some time that it would be pleasant to have a tartan other than the Stewart, for use by our household. And that is why I sent for you. The Prince was pleased with your work on a previous occasion. I want your firm to make this for us.’

  Jenny drew in her breath. ‘Madam, it would be an honour.’

  ‘What is the usual procedure? How soon could we see it in the cloth?’

  ‘The greys are no problem, we have grey yarns in stock now that are almost an exact match, although of course we shall adjust the shade if need be. The tan … my dye-master can reproduce the tan in a few days once he sees the sketch. Then my father will produce a sample on a handloom. Tell me, Ma’am, what weight would you wish to have?’

  ‘I think, two kinds ‒ the usual kilt weight, and perhaps something lighter for women’s gowns, although I’m not sure if we shall put the women servants into tartan. Can you let me see two samples?’

  ‘Certainly. Might I suggest, Ma’am, another ‒ a heavy enough weight for a jacket but less than the kilt. It might be a handsome effect, to have a plaid jacket and plain trousers?’

  ‘I had not thought of that. Why not? Yes, let us see something along those lines.’

  Jenny bowed acquiescence. She was alight with excitement and enthusiasm. Another order from the royal family ‒ and this time, the Prince’s own design. What a triumph, what an honour …

  ‘Tartans have a name, as a rule, do they not?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Have you thought of a name for this one?’

  ‘The Prince and I have considered it, but nothing seems right. I wish to call it the Prince Albert, but my husband feels that would be wrong ‒ he feels only Scotsmen should have tartans named after them.’ She smiled in loving tolerance at her husband’s sensitivity. ‘I thought, perhaps, Royal Highland … Or Highland Grey?’ But she looked dubious as she said it.

  Jenny pondered. ‘District Checks usually take the name of a district, of course.’

  ‘Deeside?’ suggested the Queen.

  Deeside … Not bad. But perhaps a little too general. To Jenny Deeside meant only one place. ‘What do you think,’ Jenny said, ‘of … Balmoral?’

  Victoria’s face lit up. Any reference to that well-loved home made her remember happy times. ‘Miss Corvill, that is an excellent idea! Why did we not think of that? Balmoral, of course ‒ our Highland home. That shall be the name.’

  The Queen’s approval made Jenny feel light-headed. She sensed that the interview was ending, and rose to her feet. Moving to the Queen’s table, she began to reclaim her portfolio. In doing so she uncovered the drawings on which the Queen had been working.

  They were surprisingly lively little figures in country costume, standing out from the page in stark black and white. One that caught the eye was a woman in a black dress, with white apron and headdress, holding a baby.

  ‘That must be a national costume, surely?’ Jenny remarked, for a moment forgetting she must not speak unless spoken to.

  ‘Quite right. Can you guess where?’ the Queen said in amusement.

  Jenny blushed, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I beg Your Majesty’s pardon. I didn’t mean …’

  ‘No, tell me, where do you think this sketch was made?’

  ‘I have never been abroad, Ma’am, but I think … France?’

  ‘Very good. These are some sketches I made during our little visit there last summer. It was so charming, we were incognito, in a little Normandy village. See, here are the starched caps in more detail. I asked how they kept them on in a high wind but they wouldn’t tell me.’

  For another five minutes Jenny stood by the Queen’s side while Victoria went back and forth among the sketches on her drawing table. Then, at last, she closed the book with a sigh. ‘Such a happy time,’ she sighed. Then, coming back to the present, to the handsome room in the cold palace in January London, ‘I look forward to seeing the cloth, Miss Corvill.’

  ‘I shall bring it myself, if you permit me, Ma’am.’

  ‘Excellent. Until then, Miss Corvill.’

  A maidservant was waiting to help her on with her wrap in the downstairs anteroom. She gathered up portfolio, reticule and gloves. She was being led down a long corridor to the porte cochere when a door at the far end opened. A woman came out, momentarily silhouetted in the light from the room.

  Jenny checked her stride. Could it be …? To her, it was an unforgettable figure, engraved on her memory with a steel tool. Laura, Mrs Robert Prentiss.

  The maid was leading on. Jenny shook her head. Nonsense ‒ she was imagining things.
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  The woman spoke over her shoulder to those in the room. ‘Remember, my friends, I’m expecting him home in good time to change for the opera.’ There was laughter and teasing disagreement from within.

  Unmistakeable. The voice of Laura Prentiss. Jenny turned, ready for flight.

  The maid escorting her looked back. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten my gloves,’ Jenny said.

  ‘No, miss, you have them in your hand.’

  Trapped, Jenny trod the stone corridor, hearing the footsteps of her former vanquisher come towards her. The light in the corridor was dim, from gas-brackets on the walls. If she kept her head turned away …?

  It wasn’t to be. As they came abreast Laura Prentiss said to the maid, in a hearty, friend-of-long-standing tone, ‘Who have we here, Maisie? A lucky visitor to the royal parlour?’

  ‘Miss Corvill, ma’am,’ said the maid, bobbing a curtsey as she went past.

  Jenny drew herself up. She saw the puzzlement in Laura’s face giving way to incredulous recognition.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Prentiss,’ Jenny said calmly through stiff lips, and walked on.

  In the carriage going back to the hotel she sat huddled in a corner. She had had nightmares about perhaps seeing Captain Prentiss, but had banished the thought ‒ by this time his tour of duty would be over, she was sure the royal family tried to ring the changes on the young men available for service in the Royal Household. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she might see Laura. Nor had she thought it would affect her so deeply. She was trembling, she felt sick, her head seemed to be going round.

  When she came into the parlour of the hotel suite, Baird leapt upon her, taking her sketchbook in her bony hands, helping her off with her wrap, fussing around like a lanky old hen. ‘Did everything go off well, then, Miss Corvill? You look gey queasy.’

  ‘It was a bit frightening.’ She had to account for her state, she saw, as Baird stared anxiously into her pale face. ‘I actually met the Queen, Baird.’

  ‘The Queen?’ breathed the maidservant.

  How strange and sad that her moment of greatest triumph should be blotted out by that unexpected encounter with the enemy of years ago.

  Chapter Nine

  The reaction of everyone in Galashiels was the same as Baird’s: ‘You met the Queen? You actually spoke to her?’

  Jenny was asked again and again what Her Majesty was wearing, how she looked, whether she was agreeable. Her patient replies conveyed exactly her impression: the Queen was a goodlooking woman of thirty-nine, dressed for warmth rather than elegance, kind in manner and with a sense of humour. Nobody seemed quite to believe it. Surely there was some grandeur, some regal disdain?

  ‘You make her sound quite ordinary!’ Lucy said crossly.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve said that,’ murmured Jenny. ‘But she certainly wasn’t wearing a crown nor wielding a sceptre, if that’s what you hope to hear.’

  Lucy shrugged and smiled to herself. She seemed to be implying that if she had been the one invited to the Palace, she’d have better things to report than chat about cloth and sketching. Jenny, she seemed to be saying, lacked sensitivity for the finer points.

  Archie Brunton, too, was dissatisfied over the London trip. It was bad enough that she had gone to the Palace, but to meet the Queen herself ‒ it was too much. How could he hope to keep Jenny in her proper place as a provincial wife if she were going to meet the Queen from time to time?

  ‘I don’t see any need for you to go back in person with the cloth,’ he grumbled. ‘You could send it ‒’

  ‘I promised I’d take it myself.’

  ‘Oh, no doubt,’ Lucy put in. ‘Too good a chance to miss, to hobnob with Her Majesty again.’

  ‘It was only respectful to offer,’ Jenny’s father said. ‘I think it was the right thing. And Jenny, when you go, I think it would be fitting to take a gift of some other tartan, just as a mark of our appreciation for the honour.’

  Archie made a sound, half annoyance, half disgust. ‘By all means seize every opportunity to promote your goods ‒’

  ‘It’s simply to show we’re grateful, Archie,’ Jenny soothed.

  ‘I should think the royal family are bored to death with having things showered on them to “show appreciation”.’

  Jenny sighed to herself. It was almost as if he wanted to pick a quarrel with her. And sometimes, in the fortnight that elapsed before she made the return trip to London, she felt it would be a good thing to quarrel and be done with it.

  Her encounter with Laura Prentiss had taught her one thing. Whatever might have been wrong in her love affair with Bobby Prentiss, there had been real feeling. She had genuinely loved and wanted him.

  The comparison with what she felt for Archie made her uncomfortable. Archie, the man she had decided on as a husband, was tolerable ‒ handsome, amiable when in a good temper ‒ someone she felt she could rub along with for the years to come. But she didn’t love him, and she knew it, and he knew it.

  Yet they were more or less committed to each other now. Their families and all their acquaintances were awaiting the announcement of their engagement. She must bring him to the point soon ‒ as soon as she got back from London again. They should have an Easter wedding. It really must be so, because she must be an established married woman by her twenty-second birthday or she would be an old maid.

  Everyone in Galashiels pressed the Corvills to show the new tartan. William refused. ‘It’s the royal family’s tartan, they must be the first to see it,’ he said.

  Ronald Armstrong had had no problems finding the right dye for the tan check over the grey. He even teased Jenny about it. ‘You should have put a tan line in that one you were showing me before you went to London,’ he told her. ‘Your grey gentleman’s suiting would have been livened up by that touch of colour.’

  ‘Mr Armstrong, you know very well I wasn’t trying to design a tartan. I wanted a quiet businessman’s check.’

  ‘I thought afterwards, you could have shown it to Wilson. How did you get on with him, Mistress Corvill?’

  She sighed. ‘There’s no doubt the man’s a rogue,’ she said. ‘But he’s an impressive rogue. That warehouse of his in Cheapside is full of bales of cloth. And while I was there I met a buyer from Paris, and heard there was one from Vienna. We really can’t afford to lose him as our factor.’

  They were sitting quietly together in the office. There had been a little conference of all foremen and department managers about how quickly the Balmoral tartan could be fitted into production if the Queen wished it to go ahead, and if so, how much they could produce without disrupting their other schedules.

  The conference had ended with tea and seedcake. Armstrong had lingered afterwards to chat. His long figure was leaning by the window, strands of wool in his hands ‒ he was seldom without some sample of new colour to show.

  ‘Was Wilson impolite to you?’ he asked.

  Jenny was surprised. ‘No, indeed. He’d expected a man, since we’d written to say our representative would call. But he recovered quickly and was amiable enough, though full of complaints about our cloth ‒ in hopes we would lower our prices to him.’ She paused a moment. ‘What made you ask such a question?’

  ‘I hardly know. Since you came back you’ve been different, somehow.’

  ‘Surely I’m allowed to be “different” after speaking to the Queen,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘No, it’s not that; it’s more as if you’d had something worrying … alarming … happen to you.’

  ‘No, I assure you.’ It occurred to her how shrewd he was. He had noticed what others had missed. She was different ‒ preoccupied, a little shadowed by the memory of the emotion she’d felt when she saw Laura Prentiss.

  ‘Can I ask ‒ is it about your marriage?’

  She coloured. Never before had they touched on personal matters. She said with some stiffness, ‘Certainly not.’ And then, recovering herself, ‘What marriage, in any case?’
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  ‘Och, it’s the talk of the town you’re going to wed Archie Brunton. The workers here are wagering it will be before the summer now.’

  ‘Mr Armstrong!’ She was offended. ‘I would prefer not to have my personal affairs discussed.’

  ‘Right, you are,’ he agreed, straightening from his lounging attitude at the window. ‘Have you definitely decided on taking the Old Stewart as a gift to Their Majesties?’

  ‘I shall take two yards as a sample piece and if they like it, I’ll say the full piece will come to the Palace by carrier.’ She retreated gratefully into business matters. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s a darkish green. If they remark on it, you can say I can produce a mossier shade — there’s no historical precedent to say that the main colour has to be pine-tree green. I was thinking, if you offer it for the children’s clothes, mebbe Her Majesty would prefer something a bit lighter.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong. That’s a good thought.’

  ‘Aye, well … Good afternoon, Mistress Corvill.’ When he got to the door he turned back a little. ‘Everybody takes it for granted it’s a match between you and Archie Brunton. If it’s still in debate … mebbe you should think twice about it.’

  With that he was out of the door and away. She sat at her desk with her mouth open in astonishment. She was angry a moment later, but then she was puzzled. What did he mean? He was the first person who had ever said anything to suggest that marrying Archie would be less than perfect for her.

  But she had no time to worry about odd ideas from a member of her workforce. She had to conclude the preparations for her journey, ensure that the samples of tartan were neatly wrapped, first in tissue and then in stiff blue paper, see her trunk packed, and book her hotel rooms again.

  She had written to the Palace to say that she would be at the Hyde Park Hotel with the sample of Balmoral tartan as from 2nd February, and would await a summons to deliver it. When she reached her hotel, an envelope was awaiting her, a stiff envelope with the royal arms embossed. She was asked to come to the Palace next day at eleven-thirty.

  ‘Baird, make sure the skirt of my brocatelle gown is pressed ‒ you see how creased it’s become in the trunk. Since the weather is so mild, I shall wear the short cashmere jacket with it. You’ll have to do my hair in the morning, there’s no time to see a professional coiffeur ‒’