A Web of Silk

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  And, of course, Frost must never know it. To him I must be the obliging Mistress Stannard of Hawkswood, happy to impart the ladylike skill of embroidery to two harmless young girls.

  ‘I would like to consider your invitation and see how I can organize my household in accordance with it,’ I said. ‘If you will give me your direction in London, I can then send word to you, perhaps in a few days’ time, to say whether I will be coming or not.’

  I let myself give him a smile in return for his. ‘I must say,’ I told him, ‘I feel that very likely the answer will be yes.’

  SEVEN

  Bridal Chest

  Near the end of the following week, I received word from Master Stagg that if Dr Joynings and I wished to visit his premises to see how far the new designs had progressed, they were now ready for our inspection. If we preferred, he would of course bring them to us, but as I had shown an interest in seeing his workshop, he had pleasure in offering me and Dr Joynings a most cordial invitation. I consulted with Joynings and we agreed to go to Guildford on the Friday.

  ‘I like to see how things are done,’ Joynings said. ‘And when one is using a workman for the first time, it’s always a good idea to look at his premises.’

  We didn’t need the coach this time, but set off on horseback, enjoying the chance of a ride, with me on my bay gelding, known as Jaunty because of his proud head carriage and lofty tail, and the vicar happily astride his skewbald cob – which he had named Ireland, not because the horse was Irish but because the chestnut patch on his offside flank was, according to a map in Dr Joynings’ study, much the same shape as Ireland. Brockley came too, saying that if we needed to leave the horses anywhere for any length of time, he could look after them. I knew, though, that he would enjoy the ride to Guildford on his handsome Firefly and guessed that he, too, would like to see a workshop where stained glass was created.

  When we got to Guildford, I said amiably that the Tun Inn, where we once more proposed to leave the horses, wasn’t far from the workshop and they would be perfectly all right there, so Brockley could come along to Stagg’s premises with Joynings and me.

  The premises were only a short walk from the inn. I had passed them before without noticing them, for they weren’t remarkable. Just a plain shop front with diamond-pane windows, a halved door, with the top half usually open so that callers could look inside before entering, and a sign above displaying a painting of a stained-glass window. This morning, a cart stood outside with a thickset brown horse in the shafts enjoying a nosebag.

  ‘Deliveries of raw materials?’ said Brockley.

  I leaned over the half door and called. A voice from within replied: ‘Come in! Just push the lower door open!’ We stepped inside to find ourselves in a big room with a table on the left, where there was a pile of folders, a writing set and an abacus, while on the right a grey-haired man with a hooked nose and eyeglasses that seemed to be sliding down it stood before an easel that held a very large sheet of paper. He was using a fine brush to draw an outline round an oddly shaped piece of wood, and copying from a much smaller drawing on a workbench beside him. Also on the bench was a row of little glass pots – paints, judging by the smears on their sides – an inkstand, a holder full of brushes of various sizes and a whole lot of aids to draughtsmanship such as compasses, rulers of varying lengths and more of the curious wooden shapes. Beside the hook-nosed draughtsman, a tired-looking man seated in a chair with wheels, with a blanket over his knees, was watching the work with curiosity.

  Master Stagg himself was at the other table, with the folders and the abacus. He got to his feet at once. ‘Mistress Stannard! Dr Joynings! And Brockley. How prompt you are. Come in, come in. Ah, I see that you are looking at Dirk Clarke’s work. Would you like to see it more closely?’

  He left his desk and led us across the room to the draughtsman. Master Clarke set his brush down as we approached and looked round at us, but continued to hold his piece of shaped wood in place. The man in the wheeled chair turned as we reached him, and Stagg said: ‘This is my brother-in-law, Daniel Johns. He is paying us a visit. Daniel, these are my clients from Hawkswood: Dr Joynings, vicar of St Mary’s in the village there, Mistress Ursula Stannard, and her manservant Roger Brockley.’

  ‘Forgive me for not rising in the presence of a lady,’ said Johns. ‘I have the joint evil in my knees and I can only just stand using two sticks.’

  ‘Daniel used to be in my line of work,’ said Stagg, ‘but fortunately his father, who was likewise, did well enough to invest in some land. That is Daniel’s support now.’

  ‘I’m luckier than some,’ said Johns. ‘I find going round my farms in a horse and cart and waving my stick at fencing that needs repair or crops that need drainage quite as enjoyable as toiling with geometric patterns and paints. And I enjoy the fresh air, too.’

  He had the same problem as Marge Reed’s old father, back in Hawkswood village. But this man wasn’t old, probably not yet fifty. He was putting a good face on it, but Nature had been unkind to him.

  There was a further flurry of sociable conversation and then Master Stagg got down to explaining what the grey-haired man with the hooked nose and eyeglasses was doing.

  ‘Dirk is making a full-size painting of a window. Not yours, though. This one is a window for a big house, to go over the front door. As you see, he has a sketch in front of him showing the shapes of the panes, marked with their dimensions and notes about their colour. The painting that Dirk is preparing will have the correct measurements and will be finished in the right colours. Then it will be ready to be shown to the client, for approval. Or not, as the case may be.’

  We nodded, impressed.

  ‘It takes time,’ said Master Clarke. There was a trace of impatience in his voice, as if he wished we would all go away and let him get on with it.

  ‘Quite,’ said Master Stagg repressively. ‘Well, that’s how it’s done in my workshop. Every Master in the trade has his own system. My own is as thorough as I can make it, and as economical. But sometimes, with complex designs, we need further intermediate stages.’

  ‘This one’s simple enough,’ Master Clarke said. He had a gravelly voice and a jerky manner of speech, as though he didn’t talk overmuch. ‘Not a picture. Round window. Just a geometric pattern made of stained-glass panes. Different colours. Straightforward.’

  Interested, Brockley looked more closely at the wooden shape that Master Clarke was still holding in place. It was an elongated triangular shape marked in inches along its edges, varnished and polished meticulously as if it was to be used as a piece of decorative furniture. I glanced at the workbench where I had noticed several others and saw that they too were polished. The shapes and sizes were very varied.

  ‘Those are standard shapes and dimensions, frequently used,’ said Stagg. He added: ‘I like even our tools to look elegant. It keeps the purpose of our trade in mind. Our windows must be beautiful.’

  ‘How long have you worked here, Dirk?’ enquired Dr Joynings.

  ‘All my life. Started at ten,’ said Master Clarke. His eyeglasses slipped further and he pushed them back up his nose. ‘Started off sweeping up glass dust.’ Which probably accounted for the gravelly voice. ‘Then I learned to varnish these here shapes and mix paints. And then progressed to this. I’m turned sixty-seven now.’

  ‘He was first taken on in my grandfather’s day,’ said Stagg. ‘There’s nothing about the work that he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Can’t draw well freehand,’ Dirk said regretfully.

  ‘No one can do it all,’ said Stagg. ‘You go on with what you’re doing, Dirk, while I take our visitors through to the back.’

  We were already aware of activity somewhere in the rear of the building; sounds of grinding and knocking. We said good day to Clarke and Johns, and followed Stagg through a rear door into another spacious room. This was a busy place, with a noticeable smell of dust and paint.

  ‘Why is Master Clarke out in the front office and not in he
re?’ Dr Joynings asked, surprised.

  Stagg smiled. ‘One could call it a demonstration. When customers come in, they don’t just see a man doing accounts at a desk; they see some actual work being carried out. They see a craftsman with his tools and materials, and can smell the ink and the paints. It creates an impression.’

  ‘An atmosphere,’ said Joynings, understanding. He added: ‘I do the same in my church. I cannot agree with the modern fad for making things plain. When worshippers enter the house of their Creator, it should have an atmosphere that induces reverence, awe, wonder. I’m no Papist, but I see no harm in a few candles in beautiful holders. And I very much wish for beautiful stained-glass windows.’

  Stagg paused, casting a benign eye over his workforce, and then said: ‘Let me show you how everything is done. You have taken the trouble to visit me, and I must make it worth your while. Then we can look at the drawings I have made for you.’

  His enthusiasm was almost childlike. He swept us along. We had come to see how our order was progressing and how the workshop was arranged, but Master Stagg went into far more detail than we had bargained for. He was voluble, and relentless. Brockley, aware of it, winked at me once or twice.

  ‘First,’ Stagg said, leading us to a table where there was a basket full of folders like the ones we had seen on his desk, ‘there are rough drawings of the designs, with suggestions for the colours of the panes and outlines of the pictures and of the leading that defines each pane of glass. I do most of that.’

  He lifted a folder from the basket and took a drawing out, laying it before us so that we could see it closely. It was clearly freehand, but very skilled and detailed all the same.

  ‘Next,’ our guide said, ‘come the precise drawings with notes and measurements. You have just seen Dirk Clarke working from one, translating from a line drawing to a complete painted facsimile of a window.’

  He put the drawing back in its folder, replaced the folder tenderly in the basket, and marched us to a workbench and easel and a sloping desk where an artist was working with the same concentrated air as Dirk Clarke. He was younger than Dirk, though this man too had eyeglasses.

  The easel held a full-size painting of a window depicting a haloed saint. On the desk was a sheet of glass. With ruler and compass, another wooden shape, and a brush laden with limewash, the artist was copying the outline of just one pane very carefully on to the glass. Master Stagg signalled to us not to disturb him, and pointed to a pile of completed panes on the workbench.

  ‘This stage has to be exact for it must all eventually fit together,’ Stagg said quietly, drawing us backwards. ‘When he has assembled all the panes for this window, he will cut them out in rough with a special implement, a dividing iron. Let me show you.’

  We inspected the dividing iron, moving softly, as Master Stagg was doing, so as not to disturb the artist.

  We were led on further, to where another craftsman, also quite young, with fair hair and a round face, and a scarf round his nose and mouth, was working with immense care on a roughly cut pane. Guided by the limewash outline, he was chipping its edges to make them smooth and perfect. A pile of more roughly cut panes awaited his attention. He too was concentrating hard and did not even glance at us. There was a dusty smell, of ground glass presumably. I had to seize hold of my nose to prevent myself from sneezing, and Brockley actually did sneeze. No wonder the craftsman wore protection over his nose and mouth.

  I noticed that on each pane, in one corner, there was a small painted number and in a quiet voice, I asked Stagg why.

  ‘That shows both the colour of the pane and its place in the pattern,’ said Stagg in a near whisper.

  The painting took place at the next table, which was presided over by a stern-looking fellow who was showing two youths how to mix paints and apply them.

  ‘It’s another window for the client that Dirk is working for,’ said Stagg. ‘The number of each pane is carefully preserved at every stage. This stage is complex.’

  I noticed that the process of mixing the pigments seemed to be complex, too. From a tall earthenware jug, something other than pigment was being added. Whatever it was had a strong smell that made me and my two companions wrinkle our noses. ‘Is that urine?’ asked Brockley in astonishment.

  ‘It helps to bond the paint to the glass,’ said Master Stagg with amusement. ‘Some people use wine or vinegar, but this works just as well – and at least one thing in my workroom comes free! Bonding to the glass is very important. There is powdered glass in the paints, too, which helps because we fire the painted panes in a kiln – over here – and that almost completes the bonding. There is still one final stage. We have nothing ready for it at the moment, but on these shelves …’ (he pushed past an empty workbench to point to the said shelves) ‘… are the constituents for it. The very last stage is to add a thin layer of what we call vitreous paint to each pane. It is made of powdered glass mixed with metallic pigments, such as iron, copper and cobalt, according to the colour required. Once that is on, nothing will bleach or wash the pigment out of the glass. Some details – the exact quantities and proportions, for instance – are a trade secret.’

  He smiled at me as if he suspected I had come to steal his trade secrets and was pleased at having defeated me.

  ‘And now,’ he said, with a complete change of tone, ‘let us look at the drawings I have prepared for your church.’

  Beside the kiln was another door, which led into a small room, evidently a study or studio of some kind. Here again was a table with paint pots and brushes and supplies of paper. On the floor, to the left of the door, just inside it, there was a wooden chest. At the sight of it, Stagg stopped short, so that I almost bumped into him.

  ‘Well, really! Whatever is that doing here? It should have been put away in the cupboard over there. These boys have no sense! I wanted it brought downstairs this morning but my servants were busy just then and I asked my two apprentices to carry it down. Fancy leaving it here – where it could be kicked or fallen over, or even damaged! It’s of value! Master Brockley, would you help me to put it away? I can’t lift it by myself. It’s too heavy.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I remarked.

  And it was. It was made of a timber I had not seen before – a deep, warm red, with a lovely grain – and was elaborately carved. It was about three feet long by just over two feet from back to front and roughly two and a half feet deep, including the dome of its lid, and it was polished to a satin finish. Sprays of silver leaves were inlaid on each of its sides, and a complex pattern like a twisted silver rope ran round the edges of the lid. It was secured by a padlock. Master Stagg smiled, produced a key and said: ‘Ah, but you should see what’s in it!’ And with that, he undid the lock and threw back the lid.

  ‘The timber is called rosewood,’ he said. ‘It comes from the Far East. The chest alone is valuable. But look at this.’

  He lifted out a large object which was wrapped and padded in soft cloths. This he set down on a nearby table, before unwrapping it to reveal a magnificent silver salt, square in shape, nearly two feet high and elaborately chased, with numerous little drawers for pepper and other spices. The lid of the salt compartment and the handles of the little drawers were each set with amethysts. He stroked the gleaming thing gently, his sensitive, artistic fingers clearly savouring its beauty.

  ‘This is the bridal gift I have put together for my niece, Eleanor. It’s my contribution to her dowry. My wife died some years ago and we had no children; I look on Eleanor as a substitute daughter. She is my sister’s child – well, my half-sister’s, our mother having married twice – and she has no parents now. Her father died when she was a baby, then my half-sister married again and, after losing two children in babyhood, lost her own life trying to have another. Eleanor is now in the care of her stepfather, Daniel Johns, whom you have just met. He is a decent man and has taken good care of her, but in the last few years his own health has become poor. He wishes to do his duty by Eleanor, bu
t it is difficult for him. However, she will have her own home soon. She is to be married shortly before Christmas.’

  ‘What a splendid wedding gift!’ Brockley exclaimed.

  ‘I have enjoyed preparing it,’ said Master Stagg. ‘Her bridegroom is well off, he is a master craftsman in the city of London and a man of position. The wedding will be in December. She will have turned eighteen by then – Johns didn’t want her to marry too young. I felt that my gift should be in accordance with her bridegroom’s position. Because of his limitations, Master Johns asked if I would undertake the business of finding a husband for her. I took care over the matter. They were betrothed four years ago, just before she had her fourteenth birthday, although we haven’t yet held a formal betrothal party. That will take place shortly before the wedding itself. Her husband-to-be will expect her to be well dowered, and I and Johns have made sure that she is. I have been saving up for years to do my part, and Johns is going to give her a sum of money and some jewellery. Her father left her something, too.’

  ‘But are you keeping this here?’ Brockley asked, frowning. ‘Surely, it ought to be locked away somewhere?’

  ‘I live upstairs and have been keeping it in my chamber,’ said Master Stagg. ‘I have had it brought down because I am about to give this to my niece and wished to have it to hand. Why my careless apprentices left it on the floor and almost in a doorway, instead of putting it away as I told them, I can’t think. I shall speak to them. Eleanor knows about the salt, though her stepfather doesn’t, as yet. She and I have decided that I should present it to her formally when we hold the betrothal party. Daniel Johns will have a surprise!’

  He beamed. ‘At the same party, Daniel will tell her the details of the dowry her father left for her. It includes a small farm, which will bring in useful rents. It should be a most happy family occasion. I only wish my late wife could be here to share it.’ He wrapped the salt up again and laid it tenderly back in the chest.