by Liz Trenow
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charlotte Amesbury, costumière of Draper’s Lane, and this is my friend Anna Vendome, a noted designer of silk.’
His smile was warm, almost playful. ‘Charmant. And what brings you two delightful young ladies to my door this sunny morning?’
‘We are seeking information about a piece of fabric.’
‘Bien sûr, mesdames. I will do what I can to help.’
As I unwrapped the silk from its parcel and passed it to him, the silver threads glistening and glimmering in the sunlight, he gave a small gasp. ‘Bon dieu! Wherever did you get this?’
‘From the auction of your stock. In a bundle of other silks.’
He leaned heavily on his stick, swaying slightly as though a breeze had entered the room. Then he sat heavily on the nearest chair, scattering books and papers onto the floor.
‘This . . .’ He peered at it again, frowning, incredulous. ‘In the auction?’
I nodded. His response scared me. What further revelations could he be about to divulge?
‘It should never have . . .’ He pulled out a red kerchief, mopping his brow and muttering something unintelligible under his breath. ‘Si quelqu’un trouve . . .’
I cleared a chair and sat beside him. ‘Finds out what, sir? Whatever is so special about this silk?’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘Je regrette que je ne peux pas dire, madame. I am not allowed.’ Dust motes danced in the light and the air smelled acrid, almost choking. Whatever could he mean, ‘not allowed’? How could a simple piece of silk be so precious or so secret? And who on earth could be making the rules?
‘Sir, we are ladies of integrity,’ I said now, urgently needing to know more. ‘It is very important for us to understand. Very, very important. And we promise faithfully that we will never repeat anything you tell us. You may trust us implicitly.’
The old man studied our faces in turn and peered at the fabric once more. We waited as the silence lengthened, becoming denser and more heavily freighted with significance with each passing second. My chest felt unpleasantly heavy and it was difficult to breathe the heavy, musty air.
At last, reluctantly, as though the words were being forced from his chest, he began to speak.
‘Very well.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But you must tell no one. C’est très secret . . . Leman made me sign un déclaration. Even the weaver Walters had to sign, and him an Englishman.’
Anna looked at me, raising an eyebrow. Monsieur Lavalle was right. ‘Who was Leman designing for?’
‘Ma mémoire est faible. Mais . . . c’était pour la Reine, peut-être.’
‘A royal commission?’ My voice squeaked with surprise. ‘For the queen?’
‘Hélas, it was many years ago.’ He rubbed his temple with a forefinger, dislodging his wig, then pulled it straight. ‘Perhaps not the queen but one of her household, a lady in waiting?’
Leaning heavily on his stick, he raised himself and limped to the shelves lining the room, running his finger along the leather spines of a dozen ledgers, muttering to himself the while. He selected a volume and carried it with some difficulty to the table by the window, where Anna and I gathered either side of him. With painfully slow deliberation, he began to turn the pages. I was reminded of the registers I had scoured so fruitlessly in the cold vestry of St Dunstan’s Church back in November, and hoped that the information he sought here might prove more rewarding.
To the top left-hand corner of each spread was pinned a sample of fabric with all the details of its provenance: the name of the design, the date, the designer, the weaver, the breadth of the fabric, the finished length and number of figures contained within it, a description and weights of the yarns used and the totals of warp and weft threads. In the lower right-hand corner were written details of the customer for whom it had been woven.
I found myself holding my breath, expecting each turn to reveal the pagoda design. About halfway through he stopped at a page containing no sample of fabric. At the top was written: ‘Chinese design. Leman. Weaver: Joseph Walters.’ It was a large order of twenty yards, including ‘16oz silvering’. In the bottom right-hand corner, where the customer’s name and address would normally have been inscribed, were just four words.
We peered more closely, trying to decipher the faded script.
‘Mr Clairborne, for HH?’ I read out. ‘Should that be H-R-H?’
The old man sighed and straightened his back. ‘Mr Clairborne was the royal costumière,’ he said. ‘It was one of several royal commissions at that time. Alas, when the new king arrived I received no further business from the palace, and I have never seen Mr Clairborne since.’ He sighed. ‘I can only assume the king brought in a new man. Thus are fortunes made or lost for those who venture into exalted circles.’
He lifted his gaze and peered out of the window with an expression of such intense melancholy that I almost reached out to place a hand on his arm, to reassure him that life carries on no matter what misadventures assail us. Something made me feel sorry for this man. How had he managed to go bankrupt when clearly he had run a highly successful business with very important clients? What misfortunes had brought him down so?
‘Sir, do you recall who this HH was?’ I reminded him.
He seemed to steel himself, shutting the ledger with a hard thud and limping back to the shelf to replace it. When he turned back, his face was closed once more: ‘I am afraid that is all I know, mesdames. I can confirm that it was a royal commission but as regards for whom, I cannot help you further.’
It was clearly our cue to leave, but how could we, when he had offered such tantalising information? ‘I beg you, sir,’ I said. ‘You must remember something more about the customer for whom you sourced such valuable and beautiful silk?’
‘I remember nothing more. Now, mesdames, I beg you, perhaps you will permit me to continue about my business. Good day to you.’
He was standing in the centre of the room. ‘Very well, sir, we will be on our way, just as soon as I can collect our parcel,’ I said, gesturing to the chair behind him on which the silk lay, silently shimmering. He made no move to allow my way and this time there was a different tone to his voice, colder and more resolute.
‘I cannot let you take the silk, I regret,’ he said.
‘But sir, it belongs to us. We bought it at the auction of your fabrics last year and can produce the receipt if you want proof.’
‘I do not doubt your word, madam,’ he replied. ‘But I have a request. This was an important commission for me and I wish to buy the silk back from you.’
‘Then why did you put it up for sale?’
‘It was included by mistake. Now I fear that if it gets into the wrong hands, it may bring trouble.’
‘Pray, how could a simple piece of silk cause trouble?’ I said, in my most charming tone.
He sighed. ‘How can I explain? I signed a declaration of confidentiality, promising that all of the fabric, every scrap, would be signed over to the palace. Clearly, a mistake was made and a piece was somehow retained. I cannot tell what would happen if this were discovered, but I dare not risk it. Please, tell me your price.’
I had no wish to add to his woes, but how could I let the silk go now that I knew how important it was to my own history, how it had been the agent that led to my being reunited with my family?
‘Sir, I do not wish to cause distress, but we cannot sell it back to you. This fabric is of great personal significance for me. But you have my word that we shall take the greatest of care not to let it be seen by anyone other than those whom we can also trust.’
I held his gaze to make it perfectly clear that I was in earnest, and at last his face softened into the briefest glimmer of a smile. ‘You are clearly a very determined young lady and I am inclined to trust you,’ he said, turning to take up the silk and the brown wrapping paper, passing them to me. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Charlotte Amesbury.’ I felt a surge of compassion fo
r the old man, moved by his dignity in the face of misfortune. ‘My shop is in Draper’s Lane, not far from here, if you ever wish to call by.’
He gave another small bow. ‘It has been my pleasure to meet such charming young ladies.’
Did I detect a passing expression of regret, or disappointment? After a long career as a successful merchant, his life must now feel very circumscribed.
Anna gave my arm a gentle tug. ‘Thank you, sir, you have been most helpful. But now we must be on our way,’ she said.
‘Adieu, mesdames,’ he said, offering his hand to each of us in turn. ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you both, but remember your promise, I beg of you. I am an old man with just a few years to live, and dearly wish them to be peaceful ones.’
‘We will, sir,’ I said. ‘And we wish you well. Good day.’
17
Mantle: a fancy short cape of silk, lace or fur, sometimes lined and edged.
‘Whatever did you make of all that?’ Anna whispered as we retraced our steps home.
My head was full of mixed emotions, and I struggled to compose a coherent answer. I felt sad for the man amid the ruins of his once-successful business.
‘I had no idea that dealing with royal commissions could be such a confidential affair.’
‘Nor I,’ she said. ‘I suppose they don’t want anyone to copy their designs. There are some orders that Henri has to be very careful with, for the same reason. That’s why we weave them in the loft, rather than let them out to journeymen.’
‘But now I’m burning to know who HH is, or was.’
‘Me too.’ We walked onwards. ‘Let’s go back and ask Monsieur Lavalle if he knows. He was right about everything else.’
‘But can we do this without betraying our promise to Monsieur Girardieu?’
‘Of course we can. Leave it to me.’
By the time we got back to Wood Street, the earlier sun was obscured by a heavy grey cloud threatening rain. Monsieur Lavalle was in his usual place by the parlour fire, reading his newspaper.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, folding the paper and pushing himself up with some difficulty. ‘A pleasure to see you, Miss Amesbury. Pull up some chairs to warm yourselves by the fire. What brings you here in this inclement weather?’
‘We have a question,’ Anna said.
‘And you think I will know the answer?’ he chuckled. ‘Then you overestimate me, daughter.’ She was not of course his daughter nor even properly his daughter-in-law, but he called her such out of simple affection, just as he always referred to Henri as his son.
‘We have just returned from visiting Monsieur Girardieu,’ she began.
‘Poor old fellow,’ he said. ‘He was well respected and successful, but quite suddenly we heard that he was closing.’
‘He certainly had plenty of stock,’ I said. ‘Had he overstretched himself, perhaps?’
‘That may have been a part of it, but word on the street was that he may have got himself in trouble in some other way. The word “blackmail” was bandied about among the fellows at the Company.’ He meant the Worshipful Company of Weavers, the guild on which he served as a Freeman.
‘Heavens,’ Anna said. ‘Was that anything to do with the royal commissions he handled, do you suppose?’
‘I don’t think so. That finished long ago, when the new queen arrived. But really, I don’t know for sure, but people said it was a personal matter. He never speaks of it.’
‘He wronged someone?’ I said.
‘Could be.’ Monsieur Lavalle laughed. ‘He was certainly a ladies’ man when he was younger. A bit of a dandy, you could say.’
I shivered. These were the exact phrases staff at the Manor had used to describe Tobias, and I’d always thought them falsely flattering. These men who used women because they had power over them were just plain wicked, as far as I was concerned, but Monsieur Girardieu didn’t really seem the type.
‘Do you know what the initials HH stand for?’ Anna asked now.
‘Not HRH? His Royal Highness.’
‘No, just HH. We think it refers to someone in the royal household.’
‘Are you being deliberately mysterious, daughter? You will have to give me more clues.’
‘Alas I cannot tell you more, for we have promised a confidence.’
‘HH, eh? Royal connection? Then let me think.’ He took a clay pipe from the rack beside his chair, pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket and tamped it into the bowl, lighting it with a taper from the fire. Clouds of aromatic smoke filled the room as he puffed it into life.
‘This is something to do with Girardieu?’
‘Alas, we cannot say.’
‘Let me see now. HH? Ah yes, that’s it. Probably refers to Henrietta Howard.’ He knew much more than he was letting on.
‘I’ve heard the name,’ I said now. ‘Who was she? Do enlighten us, sir.’
‘It was common gossip that the old king kept mistresses, and Henrietta was his favourite,’ he said, taking another puff on his pipe. ‘She had rather expensive tastes. After she left the palace, she built a great mansion in Richmond or thereabouts, and held salons for intellectuals and artists. She died only a couple of years ago.’
‘Good heavens,’ Anna said.
‘Now you have raised my curiosity,’ Monsieur Lavalle said. ‘Are you going to tell me why this comes as such a revelation to the pair of you?’
‘Forgive us,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, in time, we may be able to say. But not now.’ She rose from her seat. ‘And we must go to check on how cook is getting on with lunch.’
‘Then if you have no more exciting news for me, I shall have to seek it elsewhere.’ He chuckled and took up his newspaper.
My head was in a spin. ‘That silk was commissioned by and woven for the king’s mistress?’ I whispered, as we closed the door behind us.
‘That is what we need to find out,’ she said.
But how? I wondered. We seemed to have pursued every avenue, and the mystery seemed to have grown ever deeper. Once again it was Jane Hogarth who opened the door – albeit inadvertently – to a way forward.
Dearest Charlotte, she wrote,
Come to Chiswick for luncheon this Sunday if you are free. Ann longs to catch up with shop news and we have a fine joint of lamb too large for just our household. Do say yes, and I shall send the gig at ten o’clock.
The Hogarths had purchased what William liked to call their ‘little country retreat’ in Chiswick, Jane had once told me, on the back of the success of his so-called ‘morality series’ of prints, including A Rake’s Progress, which sold in thousands to the wealthy who piously believed themselves to be immune to the weakness and depravity he depicted. Having been so close to poverty all of my life, these depictions make uncomfortable viewing, but who was I to cavil? William’s new prosperity had led to his generosity towards good causes such as the Foundling Hospital, without which I might not have survived on this earth.
Although I had never visited the ‘country retreat’ before, I had heard much about it from both Jane and Ann. The area was apparently a magnet for many other artistic and literary types drawn by the fresh air and beautiful landscapes of the riverside, offering convivial company and excellent contacts for William’s business.
Now I found myself bouncing towards Chiswick in Jane’s private gig, eagerly anticipating a delicious luncheon and my spirits lifting as the grey streets of London yielded to vistas of green; the gardens surrounding the Queen’s Palace and then, once past the Knight’s Bridge, the park of another royal palace, at Kensington. After that it was open fields all the way to the small town of Hammersmith.
We were almost there when I noticed by the wayside a milestone with the words ‘Richmond, three miles’. My heart gave a little leap: surely that was where Henrietta Howard built the ‘great mansion’ Monsieur Lavalle had spoken of? And it was just a bare few miles from Chiswick, a near neighbour for the Hogarths. Was it possible that Jane and William had known her, or even been
invited to one of her famous salons for artists and intellectuals? I could hardly wait to ask.
Just a mile further on we turned onto the Chiswick Road, with the great wide stretch of the River Thames unfolding as we approached the village. The carriage slowed and turned into a simple gateway topped with overly grand stone urns. The first thing I noticed about the house was the fine oriel window on the first floor, overlooking the gardens and an orchard filled with fruit trees.
The pug rushed towards me, yapping around my feet as I alighted.
‘Come here, you silly animal. She’s a friend, remember,’ Jane called ineffectually. ‘Welcome, Charlotte. Sorry about the commotion. She thinks she’s a big dog, ready to fight off all comers.’ We laughed. ‘I hope your journey was not too arduous.’
She led me through the front door into the hallway, where she took my cape, and then into a spacious kitchen and a lively scene of domestic life: cook working at pastry on a marble-top in the corner, a maid chopping onions and a manservant who leapt from his seat by the fire and put down his clay pipe as we entered. With complete absence of ceremony Jane introduced me to them all, then took the kettle herself to the pump to fill it and place it onto the hob, adding a few extra faggots to the fire.
‘Would you take tea or coffee after your long journey?’ she asked.
Ann appeared, full of affectionate greetings, and led me up a short flight of stairs to the drawing room, a long room panelled in grey and generously lit from the oriel I’d observed below. Placed in front of the window were a table and chairs with a view beyond the gardens of green fields and, in the distance, a small village and church tower. The pug went immediately to a water bowl beneath the table, slurping noisily.
‘He loved to lie at William’s feet as he sat here to draw,’ Jane said. ‘We keep the bowl there to remind us.’ At the other end of the room burned a cheerful fire. Ann sat beside me on the chaise, taking my hand. ‘It is so good to see you again, Charlotte. I am keen to learn how your business fares. Do you still have the custom of you-know-who, or have you managed to palm her off onto another? And how are Mrs Taylor, Sarah and Elsie getting on these days? Are they still with you? Do they still chatter all day?’
