by Liz Trenow
Peter’s eyes were wide as saucers. ‘Where have all these ships come from?’ he shouted over the great hubbub of shouts, the creak of ropes, the crash of crates and clatter of wheels on cobblestones.
‘From the Americas, many of them, or the Far East, and also some shorter journeys from the shores of Europe,’ I said.
‘And what is it they are bringing?’ Louisa asked.
‘Cotton, silk, tobacco, sugar, all kinds,’ I said. ‘We make it into finished goods such as woven cottons and silks, and then sell it back to them.’ What I did not mention was that many of the ships would take return journeys via Africa, where they would collect hundreds, even thousands, of labourers and take them to work in the New World on farms and plantations. From time to time I have read articles in newspapers decrying the trade as human slavery, and calling for it to be abolished. Yet nothing will ever be done to stop it, Henri says, because the rich and powerful in this land depend on this labour for their accumulation of wealth.
Just then we spied below us a group of around thirty navy men, marching in formation below the Custom House, their officers and the captain in his bicorn hat bringing up the rear. What a glorious sight they made: the sailors in their blue shirts and wide trousers, the officers in darker blue frock coats and pure white breeches, the gold of their buttons, braids and shoulder tabs glinting in the weak sunshine.
My eye was caught by a single sailor, different from the rest by merit of his dark skin: mahogany-coloured like that of the beggar girl’s. I wondered whether there could be any connection before dismissing the notion as idle speculation. This man held himself tall and proud as the rest of his fellows, in contrast to the ragged soul I had encountered in the street. He was no servant or slave.
Their destination was a great warship moored to the right of us, away from the scruffier merchant ships, its bulwarks studded from bow to stern with rows of small square windows behind which, I assumed, lurked dozens of deadly cannon. The sailors stopped, forming a line either side at the base of the gangplank. A high-pitched pipe whistled from high on the deck above as the officers and men passed between them.
‘How fine they look,’ Peter whispered. ‘How old do you have to be to enlist, Auntie?’
‘Don’t you go imagining that we would ever allow you to join the navy, my boy,’ Louisa said. ‘It is far too dangerous.’
‘But would you not be proud of me, dressed up like that?’
‘We would not be so proud to hear that you had drowned in some terrible storm, been shot by natives or died a lingering death of some dreadful tropical disease.’
‘But I would be fighting for my country. Is that not an honourable profession?’
‘You are not going to join the navy, Peter. I forbid it, and that is final. Come, let us walk.’
‘When I am twenty-one I can do as I wish, you know. That is the law.’
My sister flushed, buttoning her lip and walking onwards even more briskly than before.
Anna arrived for luncheon. She is always cheerful company, joshing Peter in the same way as she teases her little sister Janey, and he seems to take it in his stride. She can ask questions about his schoolwork or his friendships that would appear overly curious, coming from me.
‘If he mentions joining the navy, make discouraging noises,’ I whispered as we collected from the kitchen plates of bread, butter, cold meats and pickles, and Peter’s favourite, the stewed apple and custard tart that I had so lovingly prepared the previous day.
‘For why, pray?’
‘We went to the dockside this morning and saw the men embarking on a warship. He is much struck with their uniforms,’ I said. ‘When Louisa chided him, saying it was too dangerous, he gave her a bit of cheek.’
Anna laughed. ‘A bold-spirited boy, that’s what I like. Leave it to me.’
Under Anna’s innocent questioning Peter happily divulged that he’d been told he would be singing the solos in the Christmas service at church, and that he had a new friend, the son of a curate recently moved to the parish. Gabriel had taught him a game called chess, played with pieces in the shape of knights, bishops, kings and queens, all of which must make different moves.
‘Ambrose doesn’t approve of board games,’ Louisa said. ‘He says they’re the next thing to gambling. But chess seems to be different; it is complicated, and I like to see them having to use their brains in such a concentrated manner. Besides, they have such fun I cannot bring myself to tell them off.’ She added, ‘Tell us what happened when you and Gabriel “borrowed” a rope from the farmer to make a swing across a river.’
‘We are all ears, Peter,’ I urged. Hearing of his exploits always brings the simultaneous emotions of joy and envy that he is able to enjoy such a carefree childhood in the countryside, such freedoms never allowed to us Hospital children.
He laughed. ‘We had the idea that we might be able to jump off onto the other bank but neither of us wanted to go first, so we drew straws, and of course Mr Muggins here picked the short one. I was sure it would work, because when we swung the rope it reached easily across, but I just ended up swinging like a pendulum over the water, shouting to Gaby to pull me back, but he was laughing too much and my arms got so tired I couldn’t hold on any more.’ The obvious outcome had us all chuckling long before he’d finished the tale.
‘What a sorry sight you were on the doorstep, dripping with waterweed.’
‘Have you have no pity, Mother?’ he said. ‘I could have drowned, or died of pneumonia.’
‘Talking of which,’ Anna said, ever so casually, ‘did I tell you about the body that got washed up in the Thames the other day?’
Louisa frowned. I know that expression; it means ‘stop now’. But my friend took no notice.
‘They couldn’t tell anything from his face, ’cos it was all gone. But they knew he was a navy man, on account of the uniform. Turns out he died in battle and was buried at sea, which means his body was dropped over the side of the ship. But somehow he did not get eaten by sharks, and he’s arrived home, or at least his uniform has.’
‘How horrible,’ we chorused, sharing glances. Peter’s appetite seemed to disappear after that. He refused a second helping of pie, and asked to be excused. Louisa gave Anna a private smile of thanks.
Time passes too quickly on these visits, but the bells of Christ Church cannot be denied. Each of the three tolls felt like a further wrench, signifying that there was just an hour before they had to leave to catch the carriage returning to Essex. Two long months would pass before I could see them again. In this last precious hour I busied myself with a tape, taking Peter’s measurements for the new jacket, all the while allowing myself a stroke of his hair, a touch of his hand, a moment to inhale his sweet boy-child smell. Over the years, I have learned to treasure these small intimacies, storing them away in my mind for succour on cold nights or long, lonely Sunday afternoons.
‘Thank you for coming. I hope that the journey is not too uncomfortable,’ I said, helping Louisa on with her cape.
‘It is but four hours. And I have my boy to keep me company.’
Although she does not mean it, her words can sometimes cut me like a blade.
5
Robe à l’Anglaise: a gown with a false waistcoat sewn to the lining of the inner bodice, often closed at the top and sloping away to the sides.
‘Penny for them, Charlotte?’ Anna asked, as we walked back from the coach stop.
‘Oh, nothing much. I’m always sad when they leave.’ I found my finger rubbing the spot on my cheek where it had been touched by Peter’s lips. The prospect of returning to an empty house was suddenly unappealing. ‘Have you time to come in for a little while?’
‘Of course. I’ll help you clear up.’
We are so easy together, the two of us. Neither having enjoyed the benefit of maids or cooks in our childhoods, we are both accustomed to taking on domestic tasks. Tidying, washing up, making the tea, we move around each other in a kind of co-ordinated dance,
always anticipating the other’s need, taking up an activity where the other leaves off until the tasks are swiftly completed.
‘Peter is such a handsome lad these days,’ she said, drying the dishes as I washed them. ‘All the girls of the parish will be after him, mark my words.’
Then he will be even further lost to me, I thought. But what I said was, ‘He is growing out of his jacket – I have measured him for a new one as a Christmas present, and plan to use that oak leaf design as a lining.’
‘Didn’t I say it would be useful? What about that other piece, the one you took against so? The silvery pagodas?’
My hands stilled in the sink, recalling Louisa’s pallor, and her faint. Surely it could not have been the silk; perhaps she was suffering from some ailment she’d chosen not to share.
‘Charlotte?’
‘It was just . . .’
‘Just?’
‘It is the strangest thing. I don’t quite understand it myself. You know how odd that silk made me feel? When Louisa saw the silk she took a faint too. In fact, we had to catch her to stop her falling.’
Anna’s eyebrows lifted. ‘She actually fainted?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you ask her afterwards?’
‘No, she dismissed it completely. I thought perhaps she might be sickening for something.’
‘She looked perfectly well to me, and in an exceptionally good humour, I thought,’ Anna said. ‘I shouldn’t worry; it was probably just a coincidence.’
Upstairs in my private room we lit the fire in the grate, the first of the season, and sat back, watching the flames. ‘You are very fortunate to have such a lovely sister, my dearest,’ Anna said. ‘I wish I could see Janey as often, but it is so far, and she is not strong.’
‘I am fortunate indeed.’
‘And there seems to be such a special bond between yourself and your nephew,’ she went on. ‘No, really. It is a delight to behold.’
It was on the tip of my tongue, but I held back. We have promised, the three of us, that no one, especially not Peter, will ever know.
She peered at me. ‘Did I say something wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘No, nothing. I am just a little sad now they have gone.’
Sometimes she reads my thoughts. ‘He’s the very image of you, did you know that? Anyone could take him for your son, you are so alike.’
‘I have promised. Oh, Anna . . .’ I could say no more, because my breath was overtaken by a powerful sob, as though the bonds of that secret had been fatally stretched and all the hidden truths were set to burst out. I felt her arms around me, stroking my hair, whispering soothing words.
‘Take a sip of water,’ she said, bringing the glass from my chamber next door. I wiped my eyes, took a few deep breaths and drank. ‘Promise or no promise, it may help to tell someone.’
‘But the promise is that I must not tell.’
I looked up and she gazed back, directly into my eyes. ‘Forgive me, Charlotte, but I believe I know your secret.’ I held my breath. ‘Peter is your son. Am I right?’
The tears began afresh, of course, but somehow it was not so painful now and I allowed them to flow unchecked. She stayed beside me until I composed myself.
‘You know you can trust me, don’t you?’ she said.
I hesitated, even now.
‘Why is your son living with your sister?’
I did not tell her everything, for we would have been there all night.
‘You know that I went to work in a big house at the age of fourteen?’ I began.
‘And that is where you learned your seamstress’s craft.’
How could I describe the agony of those months? It was my first position, and I had been happy at first, keen to learn and to please, grateful for a modicum of freedom after the constraints of life at the Hospital, and the opportunity to earn money for myself. The Major and his wife were quiet souls who did little entertaining, and their two sons were already grown up and had left home, so the work was light. The house was not over-large but beautiful, four-square and built of soft yellow stone, set in wide rolling countryside. It was not so far from the city of Gloucester and on my days off I could cadge a ride from a carter to walk the quaint little streets and even, once or twice, to visit the cathedral.
I began as a laundry maid and quickly progressed to housemaid. By the time I was fifteen I was trusted enough by the housekeeper, Mrs Baxter, to deputise for her on her days off. It was on one of those days that I was summoned to the chamber of the Major’s wife.
When she saw me, her face fell. ‘Where is Baxter?’
‘She has been given leave for two days, ma’am,’ I said, making my best curtsy. ‘To visit her mother. She has asked me to stand in her stead.’
She looked doubtful, even displeased, although she had always appeared content with my services in the past.
‘Whatever am I to do, then? My best gown is ruined,’ she cried. As she took up the beautiful green silk robe à l’Anglaise that had been resting on the bed, I saw that the bodice had somehow sustained a long gash. ‘We are due for tea at the bishop’s palace this afternoon. The major has told me I must look at my best, as he wishes to ask a favour of the diocese regarding our church. And now look what has happened. Mrs B. would have fixed it in an instant, but Alice is hopeless with a needle. Whatever am I to do?’
I did not suggest that she might consider wearing another of the many silk gowns hanging in her dressing room, nor did I hint that she should consider replacing miserable Alice, the lady’s maid who considered herself so superior that she would never even pass the time of day with the junior staff.
Instead I found myself saying: ‘I can mend that for you, madam. You will not even see the join.’
She looked at me uncertainly. How was she to know that since the age of six I had been learning to work with a needle and thread? Reading and writing, singing and needlework; these were the skills the Hospital ensured that all girls learned, equipping us for a life in service.
‘You? You know sewing? You are just a housemaid.’
‘I was a laundry maid before, ma’am,’ I said. ‘And I have been mending clothes in this household as part of my duties for nearly two years now.’
‘But this is silk.’
‘I know silk,’ I said, as confidently as I could. In fact I had worked with the fabric only a few times, enough to know how treacherously fine and slippery its threads can be; how some of the looser weaves can unravel in an instant and how the slightest of perspiration on a fingertip can mark the delicate dyes. Perhaps it was youthful bravado, but I felt certain that this rip could be invisibly mended and might earn me, just perhaps, a small bonus.
‘Very well, then,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I shall give you a chance to prove yourself. But if you make a mess of it, I may have to invite you to consider your position.’
It was a hot afternoon and I had the idea of taking my work into the dairy, the coolest place in the house, to reduce the danger of sweating over my task. I took a chair in the corner and laid out a sheet to protect the gown, half-listening to the dairymaids gossiping and giggling as they churned the butter.
Their main topic of conversation was the imminent arrival of the Major’s younger son, Captain Tobias, known to the family as Toby, who was lately returned from the Americas, where he had been serving in the English army. He had been slightly injured and had taken this opportunity to resign his commission, planning to marry his betrothed – the daughter of a good family in Bristol – and help his father run the estate. Apparently Toby was handsome and bold, liable to steal a kiss from any girl who took his fancy. ‘Or even more, if you’re not careful,’ one said, causing her companions to shriek with horror.
I did my best to ignore their chatter, trying to work out how to mend the gown. I could not steal any of the bodice fabric for a new seam, since I was aware that the Major’s wife had put on a few additional pounds and it was already a little tight. Instead, I too
k a strip from the hem and used this to interline the rip, ensuring that the nap of the fabric lay in the same direction and piecing it together with the tiniest of stitches. It took several hours, but I felt pleased with the result.
When I returned the gown my mistress reached for her pince-nez. ‘Well, well. I do declare that your work is even better than that of Mrs B. I can barely see the mend,’ she said, looking up with a smile. Later, when I went to call them for the carriage, she took me aside once more. ‘You have worked a miracle, young lady. This gown feels so much more comfortable than before. You deserve an extra shilling in your wage this month. And be assured that should a more senior position come up, you will certainly be considered.’
A shilling! It was a fortune, almost half of my week’s wage. This was when I began to understand the power of the needle, with the realisation that a perfectly fitted gown is a sure way to the heart – and the purse – of a wealthy lady. My happiness knew no bounds, for a while at least. Until Tobias arrived.
The milkmaids were right: he was handsome enough, but so arrogant that I disliked him on first encounter. When I brought tea for the mistress he told me off for bringing too few biscuits.
‘Do you think we are mice, that you bring us crumbs?’ he bellowed, guffawing at his own joke and glancing around to ensure others were doing so too. When I returned with an additional plateful – having survived cook’s displeasure – he winked at me. ‘That’s a pretty blush you have there, young miss.’
I tried to avoid him whenever possible but a housemaid has little power over her own destiny. He took to calling for me by name: ‘Charlotte, bring more logs for the fire,’ I would hear him shout. And when I arrived with them, he’d stand right behind me as I placed them in the hearth. ‘So I can appreciate your sweet little rump,’ he said, in an oily tone that made my skin crawl.
When his betrothed arrived at the Manor his behaviour with her was impeccable. She was a pretty thing, vapid but polite as pie to me and the other servants, and I felt sure she had no idea what sorrows married life would bring her. When she and the rest of the household had retired to their chambers and he was left alone with the brandy bottle, Tobias would roar like a rutting stag, calling for his slippers, his pipe, his waistcoat, whatever he could think of to keep me scuttling around till well after midnight.
