by Nunn, Kayte
She would apply herself anew, work harder and master the craft. Resolute, she dipped her paintbrush in her jar of water and contemplated the wildflowers before her. She was on the point of applying the brush to the thick watercolour paper on her desk once more, when a sharp rap at the door disturbed her peace. She paused, brush held aloft. No one was expected. Frances, who spent her mornings at the French hospital caring for those less fortunate than themselves, had yet to return, leaving only Mary in residence, for they could not afford to keep even a single servant.
Mary sighed at the interruption, set down her paintbrush and brought her hands to her hair. It had a habit of curling riotously from the confines of its simple arrangement and she patted it back into place, hoping that it was at least presentable. When painting, she generally wore a cotton smock so as not to damage her gown, and she hastily pulled her arms from its sleeves as she went to answer the door.
‘This is the home of Miss Mary-Louise Stephenson, is it not?’ asked the man standing on the front step. ‘She will be expecting me.’
He had clearly taken her for a maid, such was the humble nature of her dress. ‘May I say who calls upon her?’ she asked, pretending servitude.
‘Mr Patrick Hollander.’ He paused, as if expecting her to know who he was, but Mary merely raised her eyebrows.
‘I am afraid, sir, that I have no knowledge of you,’ she blurted, forgetting her charade in the face of his penetrating gaze.
‘Miss Stephenson?’ he asked, realisation dawning on him.
Noticing the finely woven silk of his waistcoat, the cut of his breeches, his unmuddied stockings, the rich leather of his shoes and their gleaming buckles, Mary became even more aware of her dishevelled state, for underneath her painting smock she wore a simple linen jacket that she had remade from an old gown of Frances’s and a patched petticoat. The lace that was visible at her neck and wrists was spotted with paint. Her hand went to her throat in a vain attempt to cover herself, though in doing so it only drew attention to the sullied cuffs of her chemise. Here was a man of obvious substance on her doorstep and she looked for all the world no better than a serving wench. For once, she was at a loss for words.
‘Madam. My sincere apologies,’ he continued, bestowing a smile of such warmth that his words sounded far from remorseful. ‘I sent a letter, not a day ago, advising of my visit. It was not my intention to arrive unannounced or catch you unawares.’
Although ill at ease, Mary could not help but be charmed. The smooth timbre of his voice, with its rounded country vowels, was most pleasing to the ear and he spoke at a languid pace, his words as if honey dripping from a comb, implying that he had all the time in the world.
‘It is no matter. How might I be of assistance?’
‘I have come from Wiltshire, the town of Oxleigh.’
Mary’s eyebrows flew higher. They were not in the habit of receiving callers from so far afield. Though she knew approximately where this was, she had never ventured south, or west for that matter, of London in all of her thirty-five years. Her knowledge of geography, as with many other things, came from the schoolroom, not from experience. ‘That is a very long way indeed.’
‘I confess I made the journey some four days prior. I have had some business to conduct here.’ Again, the smile, but Mary was still no wiser as to the reason for his arrival on her doorstep. ‘Perhaps we might talk further inside?’ he suggested, swivelling his glance to indicate the prying eyes of her neighbours. A shutter flapped across the lane, and at an upper floor opposite, a window sash lowered.
It was a most unusual situation, for no one had called on her in the time she had been living with Frances. She made a quick decision to trust him. ‘Of course.’ She opened the door wider and ushered him in. If he had come such a distance, then she could hardly turn him away without allowing him the opportunity to explain himself. As she led him along the hallway and into the room that she and her sister fondly called the drawing room (it was the only room they occupied, save for a shared bedroom and a communal kitchen at the back of the house), she became newly aware of the shabby furnishings, the peeling paintwork, scarred card table and threadbare rug that were in such contrast to the gleaming presence of her visitor. She did her best not to think of it, nor of the time she would lose with her painting and wondered instead what his business might be.
He was tall and had to duck his head to avoid cracking his brow on the lintel as he entered the room, but he moved with an enviable, loose-limbed grace.
She indicated two high-backed chairs that faced the card table. ‘Please. Have a seat.’ Now that she was indoors, Mary felt on surer ground.
Patrick Hollander did not appear surprised that no maid or housekeeper would be attending to them, and was apparently unperturbed by the impoverished surroundings. Mary decided it was his good manners that prevented him from acknowledging either. She, too, did not draw attention to her situation. ‘Perhaps I might offer you some tea?’ she said instead.
‘That would be most agreeable.’
She returned to the room several minutes later carrying a tray laden with Frances’s finest silver teapot, bone china cups and saucers and a small jug of milk. She had scooped the last few precious leaves from the chest and prayed it would make a strong enough brew. There was no sugar, not a scrap in the house, and she hoped that he would have the manners not to request it.
He rose as she entered the room and placed the tray on the table with a slight chink of china. She arranged her skirts and sat down opposite him, indicating that he might also resume his seat. ‘My sister, Mrs Wycroft, is at large, but I expect her back shortly.’ It was a warning that they were not likely to be alone in the house for long.
‘No disrespect to your sister, but it is your good self that I have come to see.’
‘I am quite certain that I cannot imagine the reason why.’
‘You are the artist that the apprentice weavers whisper of, are you not?’ he asked. ‘I hope my intelligence is correct, for that is what brings me here today.’
She started. Were they talking about her? If so, it was most likely to gossip at her presumption and her ignorance. ‘I would not go so far as to make that claim,’ she said modestly. ‘I am attempting to become a craftswoman at best. A pattern-drawer. At least I would be if I could persuade the mercers and the weavers to take my work seriously. They are inclined to scoff at my efforts, I am afraid.’ Mary bit her lip in an effort to stop talking. She had admitted more than she intended, especially to a complete stranger, but nevertheless she felt herself relax under his frank regard, for his open face was as wholesome as a loaf of fresh bread.
‘It is a ridiculous custom to exclude women,’ he declared. ‘But an opportunity for me, eh? Perhaps a path to fortune for us both.’
Mary poured the milk into the cups first – essential to prevent the delicate china from cracking – then lifted the teapot. As she poured, she studied Patrick Hollander from under her lashes. He was younger than her by at least a decade, but she was surprised to find herself appreciative of the fine specimen that he was: clear skin unmarked by pox, broad shoulders that stretched the seams of his coat, hands square and strong, and the sheen of chestnut hair as an escaped lock curled over his forehead. She chased away a flicker of unease; he appeared perfectly pleasant, and she could not say what it was about him that worried at her. It was likely the result of him calling unannounced, and she being unaccustomed to visitors, she reminded herself.
He noticed her surreptitious study of him with amusement and she started, catching the spout of the pot against the rim of a cup and nearly upending it.
‘Might I assist?’ he asked, putting his hands over hers. She let him take the teapot from her as, for a fleeting moment only, she relished the feel of his skin. She rarely experienced the warmth of another being and the sudden touch invited an intimacy that awoke a most disturbing sensation.
‘Am I to understand that there is not a Mr Stephenson?’ he asked.
His boldness was unexpected and for a moment she was unsure whether to take offence. ‘You are rather well informed for a stranger,’ she said, deflecting the question.
He inclined his head. ‘Forgive me, but I have been making enquiries.’
‘My father had not a fortune to settle upon a marriage,’ she surprised herself by elaborating. ‘Besides, I find I prefer my independence, such as it is. Rather a city spinster than a provincial wife. I am not certain I could find myself beholden to a man.’ His bold gaze unnerved her. Being not in the habit of entertaining gentlemen callers, she was perhaps not as guarded as propriety would have dictated.
‘You do not mince words.’
She inclined her head. ‘I do not.’
‘Good. I am pleased to hear it. I respect forthrightness, whether it be from a man or woman.’
‘That is not something many would admit to, for it is a world made for men, is it not?’ she replied.
‘And you would have us a petticoat government, I suppose?’
‘I would not perhaps go that far.’ She flashed him a conspiratorial grin. ‘Not this year.’
He gave a bark of satisfied laughter and slapped his thigh. ‘Miss Stephenson, I see I have found my match.’
She took a sip from her flowered cup, returned it to the table and met his eyes. ‘Then perhaps I might enquire as to the purpose of your visit today? The path to fortune, you said? Those are strong words, and I have to admit I find myself intrigued.’
‘Indeed. I will speak plainly if I may.’ He looked her directly in the eye. ‘I have a proposal for you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It is in the nature of an exclusive proposal.’
‘I am not in the habit of receiving proposals,’ she replied, unable to prevent a note of playfulness entering her voice. ‘Particularly from strange gentlemen.’
‘I would hope we might not be strangers for much longer.’ His voice lowered, became intimate. He too was teasing. ‘I am a humble silk merchant. The town in which my business is located is a popular staging post on the way to Bath and we deal in some of the finest fabrics produced throughout the land. We supply the best dressmakers and upholsterers in all of the southern shires.’ There was no small amount of pride as he spoke, making his use of the word humble rather ridiculous. ‘We also have a number of clients from the Americas. Indeed, I am recently returned from across the Atlantic where I have been in Boston, Philadelphia and New York.’
‘I see,’ Mary could not help but be impressed, but did her best to keep the tone of her voice even and not give away the excitement that arose within her at his words, for hope flared that he had come to see her about her designs.
‘I am an ambitious man, Miss Stephenson, and undertake to engage only the finest designers on an exclusive basis, to create bespoke fabrics for our most discerning clientele.’ He leaned heavily on the word, angling towards her at the same time, as if inviting her into a private club.
‘What is it that you know of my work that causes you to seek me out?’ Mary asked. ‘There are sufficient talented pattern-drawers other than myself, are there not? And men at that.’
He laughed again and she noticed the evenness of his teeth, the rosy colour of his lips as they parted in a smile, the fine sheen of his skin. ‘I am surprised you consider this a laughing matter, sir,’ she said, a hint of reprimand in her voice.
He straightened his expression. ‘No laughing matter at all, let me assure you, madam. I merely find your modesty most amusing. Your designs are the talk of the apprentices, were you not appraised of that? Their masters might not appreciate the fresh breath of air that your designs bring, their originality, but they – and I – certainly do. I have been searching for something different, Miss Stephenson, something that will set Hollander’s apart – and I do believe I have found it.’
‘You have seen my work? Where?’
He glanced over to the desk where her portfolio was open. ‘I took the liberty of examining it while you were absent. I do apologise for my forwardness, but I could not wait to see if what they say is true. And it is. How is it that you are not aware that, though your stature is small, you stand head and shoulders above your fellow artists?’
It was heartening to hear such words spoken aloud by another, especially after being told by so many that her work was worthless. She had suspected that the weavers and journeymen were more concerned with protecting their own interests than objectively judging the merits of her designs, but the slights had nevertheless hit their mark.
‘I have seen the beauty and originality of your drawings,’ he continued. ‘You have a natural genius.’
‘Sir, you do but flatter me,’ she demurred. ‘Pray, tell me why should I offer my services exclusively to your good self?’ Mary might be delighted by his words and – she forced herself to admit – charmed by his presence, but she still had her wits about her. She was not about to leap at the first offer he made, no matter how desperate she might be.
He spread his hands, the picture of ease. ‘Of course. I understand that you might think that way, but what if I were able to offer you more for less?’
‘More for less?’ Mary frowned and glanced over at the watercolours and her brushes idling on the desk across the room.
‘A successful designer can be expected to create upwards of sixty pieces a year. I can promise to halve that workload while doubling the payment.’
It was Mary’s turn for mirth. ‘You will surely bankrupt yourself running a business in such a way,’ she declared.
‘Who is running a business in such a way?’ Mary’s sister, Frances, appeared at the door, pulling off her bonnet and gloves, a burst of chill air coming into the room with her. ‘Oh, I see we have a visitor. How do you do, sir?’ she added.
Patrick Hollander rose from his seat and took her outstretched hand, bowing low over it. ‘Madam.’
‘Mr Hollander is a silk merchant from Wiltshire,’ Mary explained. ‘He has come to ask me to work for him.’ She widened her eyes at her sister, imploring her not to reveal her lack of experience. ‘Exclusively.’
‘Indeed,’ said Frances, her tone and her expression neutral. ‘Please, do not let me interrupt, but I too should be pleased to hear of your proposal.’
‘Of course,’ Patrick said. ‘There is nothing I have to say that cannot be heard by your good self also.’
‘Let me fetch another cup, Frances,’ said Mary.
‘Thank you,’ Frances replied, taking the far seat.
When Mary had returned, Patrick began to outline his offer. ‘A steady income, guaranteed money every month, no waiting for the merchant to pay you once the fabric has sold.’
All she had to do was produce twenty-five original designs a year. That meant a little over a fortnight for each one. It was, she considered, manageable, and the payment would enable them to buy fuel for the rest of the winter and keep food on the table. Her mouth watered at the thought of a chicken in the pot.
‘Why, pray, should I agree to that?’ she said cautiously.
‘I think you are an intelligent woman, Miss Stephenson. It is a fair offer; you will get no better.’
That much is certainly true, Mary thought wryly.
‘And how are we to know that you are who you say you are, that you can honour such promises?’ Frances interrupted.
‘I have my bona fides and you are welcome to peruse them,’ he said, producing a flutter of paper from inside his coat and extending it to her.
Frances took the paper, her mouth pursed in concentration as she read the spidery script.
‘I can advance the first payment as we speak today, a gesture of good faith,’ he promised. ‘After that, I shall visit every month and examine your designs. Guy Le Maître is well known to me; he shall be the one who will weave them. Though, I have to confide, I do not think that family has laughed for more than four generations, he is nevertheless a fine craftsman.’
The three shared a smile at the comment.
‘Sha
ll we shake on the agreement?’ Patrick asked.
For Mary the idea that someone wanted to use her work and was willing to pay so handsomely for it was more than she could have imagined. That the offer came from such an engaging man made it irresistible.
ELEVEN
December 1768, Oxleigh
Six weeks into her new life in Oxleigh and the calluses on Rowan’s hands had grown thicker and the muscles in her body ached as if they had been dragged over the stones embedded in the stream at the bottom of the garden. She came to bed each night almost asleep on her feet, seldom seeing Alice, who generally kept later hours.
She had quickly learned precisely how the master liked his clothes arranged, the most efficacious way to brighten the brass candlesticks and clean the bone-handled cutlery, how to efficiently black the fireplaces and – most importantly – to avoid spilling the slops from the privy when emptying them into the cesspit at the end of the lane. She had even made a reduction in the pile of clothes requiring mending. Much to her dismay, she had, however, made no progress in forming a friendship with Alice. The maid avoided her whenever she could and answered Rowan’s questions with as few words as possible, usually accompanied by a grunt or a sigh. ‘I have no wish to take your place,’ Rowan whispered one evening as the maid slid silently into bed.
‘Do not think that you will ever be his favourite,’ Alice replied. ‘No matter how well you might please him.’
Rowan stiffened, ‘What can you mean by that?’
