A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  But two things made it important for Corvill and Son to find other sources. First, Australian wool was going up in price. And second, for the very fine grades of cloth for which the Waterside Mill had become famous, an even better wool was needed ‒ Saxony of the highest grade, or Merino.

  The wool brokers were in difficulties in finding what Jenny wanted, at a price she was willing to pay. She had been growing impatient even last year with the excuses and prevarications she received from them.

  So this summer she decided to go herself to the wool fairs.

  ‘Go yourself?’ Ronald Armstrong said, when she told him her plan.

  ‘It’s the best way to make sure we buy the right wool.’

  ‘You can’t go to the wool fairs, Mistress Corvill! Indeed, you can’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s no place for a lady! You’d make yourself a puppy-show!’

  ‘Och, you mean the men would stare at me? Well, let them.’

  ‘Let them? Let them stare, and say the kind of ‒’ Ronald broke off. ‘Mistress, the language at a wool fair is not fit to be heard by Miss Corvill of Gatesmuir.’

  ‘But as it will be in a foreign tongue, I shan’t be perturbed by it.’

  ‘A foreign tongue?’ he echoed, utterly at a loss.

  ‘I’m going to Hamburg.’

  ‘Hamburg? You can’t go to Hamburg!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because … because … It’s unheard of.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ There was a sparkle in the black eyes that told him she was looking forward to it enormously.

  Instinct told him she would go whatever objections he put forward. And it also told him that she needed to go, that the breaking-off with Brunton had damaged her self-esteem, diminished her own view of herself, so that she needed somehow to restore it.

  ‘At least tell me you’re not going alone.’

  ‘Of course not. I’m taking my brother with me.’

  ‘Your brother.’ The total lack of enthusiasm hid his opinion of Edward Corvill, which was the opinion shared by the rest of Galashiels. Ned liked either to play the fool with the rich young men of the area, or to play the scholar with a pile of books at his desk. But he had no role in business.

  ‘My father’s the one who knows most about wool,’ Jenny acknowledged, ‘but asking him to go aboard a ship is useless. The idea terrifies him.’

  ‘He has some justification. Yon passage across the North Sea is no great pleasure.’

  She was surprised. ‘You’ve been abroad?’

  ‘Aye, I went to Berlin, it would be about six years ago, to see what they were doing at the University with the new dyes from coal tar.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She eyed him with respect, but then laughed. ‘And you lived to tell the tale! So you see, all this alarm about foreign travel is foolishness.’

  She was proved wrong on the passage from Newcastle. The steam packet was buffeted along by a brisk south-westerly, which caused Ned to retire to his cabin with a whisky flask for comfort. Jenny stayed on deck thinking fresh air was best, but was glad when nightfall allowed her to seek honourable refuge in her bunk bed.

  The docks at Hamburg were intimidating, tall gantries moving great loads on the end of chains, masts and flannels obscuring the front of the Seewarte and the warehouses. Much had been destroyed in a great fire about a quarter of a century before, but much had been rebuilt, and finely rebuilt.

  Herr Guttmann, waiting to greet them as they came down the gangplank, was somewhat taken aback. He had had a letter from a London wool merchant asking him to extend politeness to the son of the famous cloth-maker, William Corvill, but who was the young lady? How annoying of Mr Corvill to bring a wife! Women were such a hindrance in business.

  No, she wasn’t a wife. ‘My sister, Miss Corvill,’ said Ned.

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ lied Guttmann in excellent English. The young lady had come along for the pleasure of visiting the Continent, no doubt. Very well, he’d get rid of her into the care of his wife.

  Not in the least. When he had seen the couple to the Hotel Kastanhof and helped them register, the young lady refused to be taken out at ten next morning to go sightseeing with Frau Guttmann. ‘Thank you, no,’ she said. ‘At what hour does the dealing open at the Wool Fair?’

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ Guttmann said, in a faint voice.

  ‘Very well. How do we ask a hackney driver to take us to the hall?’

  ‘You … er … you intend to come, Fraulein?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘I … I don’t advise it.’

  ‘Herr Guttmann, I’ve come to Hamburg to buy wool. I am certainly coming to the Fair.’

  ‘Er … in that case I’ll call for you at seven-thirty.’

  Their entry into the great barn of a hall caused something of a sensation. Business didn’t exactly cease, but heads turned and conversation slackened as he threaded his way through with the slight feminine figure in dark blue silk at his elbow.

  Before an hour had passed, they had collected quite a following. Word had gone round that the two Englanders were members of the Corvill family, owners of Corvill and Son, the famous cloth-maker.

  ‘My mother and my wife both have gowns made from your tartans, Herr Corvill,’ said a young man to Ned.

  Jenny leaned round Ned to reply. ‘Which tartans, sir?’ She was always keen to know who liked what.

  ‘My wife has the Rob Roy tartan and my mother ‒ it is a dark blue design with a red check ‒ I do not recall the name.’

  ‘Eliot?’

  ‘Right!’ He smiled at her. She was a great novelty ‒ a woman at the Wool Fair. ‘Allow me to present myself. Franz Lennhardt, a buyer for Jener and Schlieber of Berlin.’

  ‘Jener and Schlieber! Of course! Ned, Jener and Schlieber is the firm who took a big order of the Coigach plaid.’

  Since Ned could only just picture the Coigach plaid and had no recollection of who had ordered what, he could contribute very little to the conversation. By and by it became clear to all that the young man couldn’t talk business. Guttmann had to smother a snort of laughter when he heard Lennhardt say in German to some friends, ‘Don’t bother with the brother, he scarcely knows whether he’s wearing a hat or not. The girl is the one with all the sense.’

  At lunchtime many of the men resorted to a beer parlour for hearty quaffings of ale and hot meals on large plates. Luckily it was a fine August day, so the problem of what to do about Jenny was solved by young Herr Lennhardt. ‘There is a very pleasant little park just along the road,’ he suggested. ‘We can have what you call a pic-a-nic with bread and cheese and wine, yes?’

  ‘Picnic,’ Jenny said. ‘Yes, that would be very pleasant.’

  ‘Sehr gut, Franz,’ Guttmann breathed with gratitude into the young man’s ear.

  ‘Nichts,’ said Franz. He was delighted to stay close to this pretty, black-haired girl who sparkled with life and enjoyment in the dusty wool hall.

  By mid-afternoon even Jenny’s pleasure was dimmed. The noise, the smell of the wool, the heat, the cigar smoke, even the after-effects of the unaccustomed wine was making her dizzy.

  A trolley piled with great canvas-wrapped loads of wool was being pulled by a sweating porter through the hall. He had to stop as his way was blocked by a crowd of chaffering dealers, so that when he started again he had to tug and wrench at the drawbar. The pile on his vehicle swayed. The top bale began to tilt.

  ‘Achtung!’ he shouted despairingly as it fell towards a group of buyers.

  Jenny felt a pair of strong arms come around her. She was lifted off her feet and pulled to one side. She fell against a muscular chest. Her cheek rested on a poplin-clad shoulder. A great brown bundle weighing forty pounds went toppling past.

  Confusion reigned. Shouts and consternation. ‘Are you all right, Fraulein?’

  ‘Jenny, did it hit you?’ Ned cried.

  ‘No … No … I’m all right.’ She drew away from her saviour. She looked up i
nto two dark blue eyes that were smiling with relief and pleasure. ‘Thank you, Herr Lennhardt.’

  ‘Delighted to be of use,’ he said.

  Their eyes held. The smile of politeness faded a little. Something passed between them, a silent message, an acknowledgement.

  ‘Delighted,’ he said again, in a slightly different tone.

  Herr Guttmann was very upset. What if his precious charge had been hurt? He owed a considerable debt of gratitude to young Lennhardt. So, of course, when trying to arrange entertainment for the evening ‒ entertainment suitable for a respectable young lady as well as her amiable brother ‒ he included Lennhardt in the party. It was agreed they would go to a Weingarten, a well-known venue where bourgeois citizens of Hamburg could take their wives and daughters of a summer evening.

  The dinner party was made up of Herr Guttmann and his wife, Franz and his wife Elsa, and the Corvills. The restaurant was near St Catherine’s Church. It was a revelation to Jenny. The room had decorations of red and gold, with, swags of green garlands on a trellis leading out to a paved garden. The tables were covered with white cloths that sparkled in the dusk. There was a little orchestra which played sentimental songs in which the diners would join from time to time. And when there was no singing, the customers would rise from their tables and dance on a flagstoned space under a bower of rambling roses.

  When Franz Lennhardt asked Jenny to dance, she was so surprised that she was stricken speechless. He took her hand, pulled her to her feet, led her on to the little dance floor, and whirled her into a waltz.

  Fully two minutes went by before she recovered from the shock. The thrill of movement to music in the arms of a stranger quite overpowered her. This was different from the stately cotillions of the Assembly Ball or the country dances of an evening party ‒ this was face to face with a handsome young man, whose brown head bent a little towards her, whose hand rested warmly in the small of her back. She could feel its warmth through the satin of her gown and the whalebone and linen of her stays.

  Franz was singing the words of the song to himself as they danced. ‘What does it mean?’ she asked, looking up at him.

  ‘Oh, it’s about moonlight, and lovers …“Though the moon wanes, my dear, my darling, Love still remains, my heart, my joy” …’

  ‘That’s very beautiful,’ sighed Jenny.

  ‘You are very beautiful, Fraulein Jenny.’

  ‘What?’ In the lilt of the music, she could scarcely hear him.

  ‘Nothing. How long are you staying, Fraulein?’

  ‘Only until the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘What a pity,’ he breathed. The music ended, he led her back to their table. His wife was watching them approach. She said something to Franz in German. He smiled and shrugged. One must be polite to foreign guests, his manner implied.

  Next day was busy with contracts and instructions for shipping Jenny’s purchases. She invited the Guttmanns and the Lennhardts to dine at the hotel in the evening. There was music here too, a little trio that played Schubert, but no room for dancing. Nothing could have been more sedate. Even so, some magic seemed to flow between Jenny and Franz. When she glanced up, he was looking at her. When they were silent, they seemed to be speaking to each other.

  As she brushed her hair that night she leaned forward to stare at herself in the mirror. ‘You’re a fool,’ she said. Her reflection made no contradiction. But neither did it offer any help.

  She and Ned went aboard the steam packet for Newcastle at about half-past nine next morning. There was a little party of well-wishers to see them off ‒ Herr Guttmann, Franz, and the merchant from whom Jenny had bought the wool. The men pumped each others’ hands, promised to meet again next year.

  While Ned was chatting with Guttmann, Franz took Jenny’s gloved hand in his. She thought they were going to shake hands. Instead he bore it towards his lips. But, as he bent his head towards it, he peeled back the white kid glove and turned her wrist. On the bare skin of the palm of her hand, he imprinted a kiss.

  ‘Goodbye, mein Leibling,’ he murmured.

  At the touch of his lips, a frisson went through her. She felt herself go pale. She almost swayed from the intensity of her reaction. At that moment Ned turned, took her by the elbow. ‘Time to get aboard,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  They went up the gangplank. Already sailors were throwing ropes, the engine of the steam packet was throbbing urgently as the vessel prepared to move out of its berth.

  Jenny stood at the rail to wave as the Eisenkranz slowly backed away from the quay. Within a few minutes the figures smiling and calling to them began to grow smaller, then they were hidden from view as the packet steamer edged between the great cargo ships and headed out of the Elbe.

  Slowly the spires of Hamburg disappeared from view in the shimmer of smoke and heat haze. Goodbye, goodbye, Jenny said within herself. Her throat ached, she could only nod or shake her head when Ned spoke to her.

  She had come to Hamburg to prove to herself she could do without Archie Brunton, be a person in her own right. She had done well, she had carried out the business for which she’d come, she had made a good impression.

  And she was lonely, lonely, lonely …

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy’s redecorations were finished when Ned and Jenny reached home. Going through the front door was more like stepping into a ballroom than an entrance hall. It glimmered with metallic brocades and crystal-hung gasoliers. The quiet drawing-room carpet had been replaced with a swirling pattern of roses in baskets. The dining-room chairs had been reseated in crimson satin with curtains to match.

  Jenny had expected changes but not quite to that extent. Her sister-in-law, however, took it for granted the changes were all for the better. Jenny dutifully admired, grateful only that her bedroom had been altered very little because of the plain wainscoted walls. She felt she could live with the bedspread and curtains patterned with yellow and brown flowers of uncertain species.

  ‘Do you really like it?’ her mother asked, looking round when she came in for a bedtime chat.

  ‘Not much. But it’s better than the drawing-room.’

  ‘Those shiny new sofas … She threw out your poor father’s favourite armchair!’

  ‘We’ll get it back, Mother.’

  ‘It’ll look gey queer in the middle of all those roses. Jenny, why ever did you let her do it?’

  ‘I thought it might help to amuse her. She seemed … cast down.’

  ‘Cast down? She was wound up all the while you were away ‒ determined to have everything finished to show you when you got back. I kept saying to her, “There’s no rush,” but she would go at it hammer and tongs … And I must say I think it was because she knew you’d stop her.’

  ‘Never mind, Mother. We’ll tone it all down gradually.’

  ‘You know what she wants next?’ Millicent Corvill went on without heeding Jenny. ‘She wants to give a Grand Ball to show off the new furnishings. Your father thinks it’s mere ostentation.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let her start on it, not without your say-so, dear. But she’s gone a long way with the planning ‒ she said she wanted it to be one of the opening events of the winter season.’

  ‘The winter season? Since when has Galashiels had a winter season?’

  Millicent sighed. ‘She’s a strange one,’ she said. ‘Not nearly as quiet and sweet as she seemed at first.’

  Jenny had no wish to condemn Lucy for that. She knew ‒ who better ‒ that we all play a part to some extent. To her parents she was a dutiful, clever and hard-working daughter. They were quite unaware of that other Jenny who lived behind that quiet facade, who had loved a man to the fullest extent, who had been sinful according to their lights, and who had kept her passionate secret from them in mere pity for the grief it would cause them.

  That girl went on Sunday with them to the kirk, knelt on the hard floor to pray, listened meekly to the minister. But that was not the re
al Jenny. The real Jenny was the girl who had felt her whole being leap in response when Franz Lennhardt kissed the palm of her hand.

  ‘I suppose we all have different faces we show to different people, Mother. When Lucy first arrived, she wanted you and Father to like her so she …’

  ‘She pretended.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that exactly ‒’

  ‘It’s what it amounts to.’ Millicent shook her head. ‘Your father says she has a restless soul. Well, we must take her for what she is, for she’s one of the family now, after all.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Mother ‒’

  ‘But your father shakes his head over her a lot, Jenny. An awful lot.’

  And how much more, if he only knew the truth about Lucy. The lies about her family and background, the foolish affair with Archie Brunton …

  The family peace had to be preserved. If Lucy wanted a Grand Ball, why not let her have it? They could afford it, after all. And it was better perhaps to have Lucy busy about things of that kind than bored and ready for mischief.

  With Jenny’s agreement and Ned’s fond approval, Lucy launched into action. Being in charge of the redecorations had brought home to her how easy it was to spend money in the name of the Corvills.

  She hired a well-known group of musicians for the dancing. She called in caterers and florists to whom she showed her plans for the event. For a week the house was full of men measuring the rooms and discussing whether to serve the supper in the drawing-room or the parlour. Ned absented himself to the Gentlemen’s Club, his father bore it in baffled silence.

  To have a special new gown made for the ball, Lucy sent for an expensive dressmaker from Glasgow, who came to stay at Gatesmuir complete with bolts of silk and satin and a scared little apprentice. Books of dress illustrations, paper patterns, lengths of ribbon and braid overflowed out of Lucy’s bedroom on to the landing.

  Jenny came home at lunchtime one Thursday with a splitting headache from the thundery weather and a long spell in the weaving shed. One of the machines had been causing trouble. She longed for half an hour’s peace and quiet, a headache powder, and a good strong cup of tea.