by Liz Trenow
‘Have you told Jean yet?’
‘He’s too little to understand,’ she said. ‘I will tell him when it starts to show.’ She stopped, biting her lip.
‘Penny for them?’
‘When my mother was pregnant and she told me I would have a little brother or sister, I couldn’t believe it,’ she said. ‘How could there be a baby inside her? And then . . .’
Her mother had died giving birth to Janey. ‘My dearest, you must not dwell on that. It will go well, I am sure.’
‘Yes, I am sure you are right. I should stop worrying. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. That silk we bought . . .?’
‘The pagoda silk?’ I’d been so busy since Christmas trying to get the business back on its feet that it had slipped to the back of my mind.
‘Monsieur Lavalle confirms my view that the design is by Leman, or possibly Dandridge, woven by someone called Walters, who was a highly respected English master. It could even have been a royal silk.’
‘Good heavens. For Queen Charlotte?’ Wherever would my mother have got hold of a piece of royal silk?
‘No, this was more than thirty years ago. Wouldn’t it have been Queen Caroline at that time? They were very keen on Chinoiserie back then because Chinese porcelain had become so fashionable. Hence the pagoda and the dragons.’
‘Dragons? I never noticed the dragons.’
‘Here.’ She pointed to the twisted, malformed trunk of a tree in the landscape behind the pagoda. On closer scrutiny I could see that coiled around the trunk, looking like part of the tree itself, was a fantastical scaly creature, a wild-eyed lizard.
‘Whoever could want dragons on a dress silk?’
‘They’re a symbol of power, are they not?’ she said. The idea that it had been woven to a royal order made me even more apprehensive. These commissions are usually handled with the utmost confidentiality, so how on earth had my mother got hold of it?
‘I suppose we’ll never know,’ I said.
‘I’m not giving up yet, though. There are so many questions. Weren’t you going to ask Louisa about it, over Christmas?’
‘I did, and she brushed me off, told me not to meddle. And then we had a spat about Peter.’
‘Oh, my dearest. I’m sorry. What went wrong?’
I found myself telling her about the typhus and my suggestion that Peter might come to London. ‘She was furious and told me never to mention it again.’
‘She is your sister, and she loves you and Peter as much as you love them. Take heart, sweet one. All will be well. Life will continue as before.’
On her way out she espied the pile of blue flyers resting on the counter, ready to be distributed the coming week. ‘What is this?’ She took one up to read it. ‘Oh Charlotte, is trade so slow that you are having to discount your services?’
‘I’m afraid so. It is very difficult at the moment. I have to do something, or lay off my seamstresses, and I cannot bear to do that.’
‘Then I am sure you are doing the right thing,’ she said. ‘But if I may take a few, I will get Henri to deliver them to his merchants and mercers. They can pass them on to their customers.’
‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’
‘I am sure trade will pick up before long. It always has, in the past.’ She patted her stomach, smiling. ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking I should get my order in early for a new gown to accommodate this one. So maybe I can take advantage of your generous discount.’
A week later I received an invitation: Come to tea. My father and sister have recovered, and are arriving on Saturday. We would love to see you for tea on Sunday.
Had I known my father, I would wish him to be the very model of Anna’s. Although they are both Church of England vicars he could not be more different from my brother-in-law, and if there is a God I certainly prefer the Reverend Butterfield’s version. Ambrose’s faith is severe, leading him to extreme and fixed opinions, but Theodore seems to believe that the Almighty has an all-embracing, all-forgiving nature, like his own.
We first met nine years ago during those worrying weeks when Henri was in gaol, wrongly accused of causing affray. On receiving news of this calamity I had written at once to Anna asking whether she knew of anyone who might come to his aid. That they were in love was already plain to see, although I knew that her uncle and aunt, her guardians in the city, would be utterly opposed to any such relationship.
When she disappeared suddenly to Suffolk without mentioning a word of it to me, I feared their opinion must have prevailed and she was nursing a broken heart, so when she turned up at the shop just a few days later, in response to my letter, I could not have been more delighted. With her was a tall, stooped man with grey hair and beard flowing untidily onto his shoulders, wearing a clerical collar.
‘Charlotte, please meet my father,’ she said.
‘Sir, it is a pleasure,’ I said, surprised by his informal appearance. ‘Anna never told me you were a man of the cloth. How should I address you?’
‘Theo,’ was his reply. ‘That is what everyone calls me.’
And that, in a nutshell, is the measure of the man: he is modest, thoughtful and self-deprecating, with an economical mode of expression in which a few words can convey layers of meaning, at home with any level of society and so utterly dedicated to his flock and his family that you cannot help but love him.
Anna’s sister Janey is the sweetest-natured girl you could ever hope to meet although, on account of a difficult birth, she is a little lame on her left side, struggles with her words and cannot always be trusted to remember things. Yet for all this she has not a hint of shyness about her. We developed a strong bond when, together with Mariette, we were both bridesmaids at Anna’s wedding. Janey took her duties very seriously, and we made sure that she caught the bouquet tossed into the crowd after the ceremony. She loved the dress I’d sewn for her and had worn it every day thereafter, at least for the three subsequent days of my stay.
Now, on this chill February day, I looked forward to renewing my acquaintance with Anna’s family, with the cheering prospect of good food and conversation. It must have been more than a fortnight since I’d enjoyed the company of any but my own seamstresses and customers, and my heart was light on setting out along the route that has become so familiar, the route that seems to represent the powerful bond of friendship between myself and Anna. I pray that it will never be broken.
Here in that cosy parlour were gathered Anna and little Jean, her father and Janey, Henri and his mother Clothilde and Monsieur Lavalle, master of the house, as well as his daughter Mariette and her fiancé Philippe, a French silversmith with a growing reputation for ornate filigree designs.
‘Come and see Mariette’s magazine. We are looking at the latest fashions,’ Janey cried, taking me by the hand and pulling me to a seat between her and Mariette, who had little Jean on her knee. On the other side of the room Theo, Monsieur Lavalle and Philippe appeared to be debating the impact of new scientific discoveries on our understanding of God. Henri was telling his mother about the new spinning machines he’d seen advertised.
‘They’ll soon be putting you out of work,’ he said, since she is a silk throwster, spinning the silk by hand as she prepares it for the loom.
‘The sooner the better,’ she replied, with the gentle smile that smooths the lines of hardship and sorrow etched upon her face. Clothilde is increasingly frail these days and Henri would like her to give up work and come to live with them, but she is still fiercely independent. Perhaps the arrival of these machines will tip the balance.
Firelight glowed on the wooden panelling; a table was laid with plates of cakes and biscuits and the fine porcelain tea set usually kept in the glass cabinet, now twinkling in its new freedom. Anna was looking exceptionally well, her eyes bright, her earlier pallor disappeared. Once she’d finished handing around tea and cakes she came to sit at my side.
‘Have you told everyone yet?’ I whispered.
I had not reckoned
on Janey’s sharp ears. ‘Tell us what?’
Anna laughed. ‘Well, we planned to say something this afternoon, so this seems as good a time as any.’ She leaned forward and tapped a teaspoon on her cup, bringing the company to silence. ‘Henri and I have something to announce,’ she said.
You could have heard a pin drop.
‘Go on, then,’ Henri urged.
‘You tell them.’
He came to Anna’s side, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘We are expecting a brother or sister for Jean,’ he said, blushing crimson. ‘In July. Not long to wait now.’
The room erupted. Janey shrieked and jumped up to throw her arms around Anna, knocking a plate onto the floor, where it broke with such a crash that little Jean began crying.
Clothilde kissed Anna on both cheeks. ‘Another grandchild,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘After all the losses of our lives you have brought us so much happiness, my dear.’ I was reminded of how her two daughters and husband had died, fleeing persecution from their homeland of France.
‘This deserves something stronger than tea,’ Monsieur Lavalle said, bringing out a bottle of port and a tray of glasses.
The burn of the liquor in my throat was a welcome distraction. For all the overflowing of happiness in the room there was a matching sadness silently drowning my heart, a sorrow born of envy, although I would never allow myself to show it. I missed my own child so deeply. How joyful it would have been to raise him as part of a lively extended family such as this. And yet one of the bitter truths I have learned in my brief years of being part of a family, and of knowing motherly love, is that although it may bring heights of happiness you could never have anticipated, it can also bring pain that cuts like a blade, and cannot be assuaged by any medicine.
13
Cloak: an outerwear garment made of wool, velvet or silk cut in a half-circle pattern, sometimes with a collar or hood and tied at the neck. Lengths vary, usually ending at or below the waist.
The weather turned colder yet, with occasional snowflakes floating down from a leaden sky. I prayed it would not fall in any great amount, for few customers will willingly brave slippery cobbles and the slush of London streets. I was peering out of the shop windows when the post arrived; a pleasant distraction, especially since it included a letter from Louisa. I ripped it open eagerly, keen to discover whether she was confirming the dates for my visit at Easter, now just a few weeks away.
Reading the words ‘Dearest sister’ still gives me shivers of happiness, but best of all is when she includes a letter from Peter. All of the notes he has ever written are stored in my chest upstairs, bound with a blue ribbon. I sometimes get them out to read them anew or simply to hold them in my hands, to cherish them, observing the steady improvement in his penmanship and vocabulary, from the scribbles and simple stick figures of the early days to the complex sentences in which he now expresses himself.
This time there were just two sheets, both in Louisa’s childlike hand:
Dearest sister,
I write with sorry news. Ambrose says we must cancel all visiting plans for the next month or so as it is unsafe for you, or indeed ourselves, to travel on account of the typhus which, you may have read in the newspapers, has spread throughout our part of Essex.
There have been one or two cases here in Westford Abbots but please be assured that we are perfectly safe and are taking every precaution to remain so. Peter is staying home from school and church, and is allowed only one or two special friends to visit him here at the vicarage.
I have dropped all my visits and invitations, as have most of our acquaintances. Ambrose says he must continue his duties, of course. Though he chides me for being overly anxious I urge him daily to keep a distance from members of the congregation to avoid their vapours.
It is very dull here as a consequence and I long for your company, but believe Ambrose is right that we should be cautious, at least for the moment.
We hope this finds you well, despite the terrible chill.
Your loving sister, Louisa
Typhus, again, threatening all those I hold dear with its creeping, invisible, deadly evil? How could I bear to think of the two people whom I hold most dear, my son and my sister, exposed to the dreadful threat lurking in their parish?
Being so far away left me feeling helpless and my first instinct was to pack a bag and rush at once for the stagecoach, but reason prevailed. Ambrose would be furious and might even turn me away, perhaps with good reason; for although no one knew how, the disease was known to spread from person to person. What if I should find myself sitting on the stagecoach next to someone already infected, and then bring it into the house, all unknowing?
The solution was obvious. I wrote immediately:
Your letter fills me with great fear, dearest sister. You must come away as quickly as possible. We can hire a private gig for you and Peter, and you shall come to stay with me until the threat has passed.
After two anxious days and sleepless nights, I received her reply.
Thank you for your kind offer, but Ambrose says we are safer staying where we are. After all, most cases of the typhus occur in London, and we would not wish to find ourselves, as he puts it, leaping from the frying pan into the fire.
Perhaps it was my state of anxiety about the business and the typhus threat, coupled with little sleep, but her letter seemed to exasperate me beyond reason. ‘Ambrose this, Ambrose that,’ I muttered, crumpling the paper into a ball and tossing it into the fire. ‘That wretched man has an opinion on every matter under the sun. Why will she never challenge him? Does she have no mind of her own?’
She was right, of course. There was disease in the city too. But among the many hundreds of thousands living here the relative danger is tiny compared with a small village like Westford, where there were already two cases of typhus in a population of a few hundred. In the full flow of my fury and frustration, I dashed off a reply.
Dearest sister,
Has Ambrose taken leave of his senses? I cannot understand how anyone can possibly believe that remaining in a disease-ridden parish could be safe for yourself and my son. Please, reconsider my offer and come to London immediately.
Of course I should have waited until I was calmer, when better judgement might have prevailed. But the post-boy arrived just then, so I sealed the letter and gave it to him.
Two more days passed, then four, then a whole week of fevered anticipation.
How could I have been so foolish? Telling my sister that her husband must have lost his senses and transgressing so blatantly, on paper, the unwritten rule that I should never, ever, refer to Peter as ‘my son’? How I regretted that hasty letter, and wished so dearly that I could have retrieved it. But now I had to wait, hoping that she would understand that it had been written in a state of great anxiety.
I began to fear the worst, imagining, in my darkest moments when I woke in a cold sweat in the early hours of the morning, that all three of them had succumbed to the disease. The newspapers were full of wider concerns: John Wilkes expelled from Parliament again, and the war in the American colonies. An outbreak of typhus in Essex was never going to make the headlines.
I wrote again:
Dearest Louisa, please forgive the hasty words of my previous letter. I am desperate to hear from you. Please write to let me know that you are all well. I long to visit you, and each day without knowing is like a knife in my heart.
Easter was just under a month away, and normally I would have been making plans to visit. The weather had at last turned a little warmer, hinting at the arrival of spring, but it was winter in my soul. Two further weeks went by without word, and each day I forced myself to resist the temptation to leap onto a coach. Each day, reason prevailed. Just wait, I told myself. Her letter will arrive soon, and all will be well. At last a letter arrived, addressed in Ambrose’s spidery hand.
He had almost never written directly to me before and I tore it open, fearing that it must surely bear grave n
ews about Louisa.
Dear Agnes,
It pains me to write thus, but your sister and I were much distressed by the personal insult in your letter and the insinuation that we are acting in a way unsafe for ourselves and Peter by allowing him to remain in ‘a disease-ridden parish’.
May I remind you of the generosity and hospitality we have extended to you over the years, and that your business depends on the very reasonable terms I have negotiated for you? After all of this, you have the temerity to question whether I am in full possession of my senses, and to cast doubt on our ability to raise your nephew in a right and proper way.
I must reiterate our earlier insistence that you may not visit until you are invited, and that will only be once we are completely certain that the threat of typhus has fully passed.
Yours &c.
Ambrose Fairchild
The next I knew was Elsie’s hand on my arm.
‘Miss Charlotte? Are you unwell?’
The seamstress was crouched on the floor beside me. I allowed her to help me to my feet and lead me into the parlour, where she sat me down and brought a glass of water.
‘You’re terrible pale,’ she said. ‘I hope it is not bad news?’
Her sympathy weakened me, but it would not do to cry in front of the staff. ‘It is nothing, my dear, but thank you for your concern. I will rest in my room for a while, if you don’t mind.’ She helped me up the two flights of stairs. ‘You just call for me, if you need anything. Promise?’
Once she had left the room I wept freely, cursing my own stupidity. My letter had been crass and thoughtless, and I deserved his anger. Had I not been so impatient and hasty, had I read through my words more carefully and considered how they might be received, this upset might never have happened. It was obvious that Louisa shared her concerns with her husband and since she never denied him anything, would be certain to abide by his instructions. That was the way their marriage worked. There was little to be done except apologise.
Raising myself from the bed, I completed my morning ablutions and put on a day gown, then sat at the table and, after several drafts, perfected to my satisfaction what I hoped was a truly penitent missive.
