by Nunn, Kayte
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What drives you to excel?’
‘Fear of failure?’ She smiled slightly. ‘No, actually, that’s not entirely true. I guess I wanted to make the old man proud of me,’ she said.
‘And did you?’
She put her glass down. ‘I really don’t know. He wasn’t an easy man to get close to. I don’t think even my mother knew him very well. I suppose part of my reason for coming here was to search for clues, anything that might give me a bit of insight … I’m not sure there’s much more need for me to stay here though, and I reckon Dr Fox will probably agree after what’s just occurred.’
But as she said the words, she realised that wasn’t the case at all. She did want to stay. Not as a nonsensical way of somehow earning her father’s respect or understanding him, but because she had become fond of the girls, the school, even, and the good things it stood for.
Thea took another sip of her drink and lapsed into silence. Her fingers and feet began to thaw, the feeling prickling back into them. She stared at her hands as she flexed them, seeing a smaller version of her father’s square-tipped fingers.
‘I didn’t always like him.’ There it was. The truth. Finally uttered out loud. What was the trite saying – The truth will set you free? Well, the jury was still out on that one. ‘And it’s been hard to stop feeling guilty about that.’ She finished her drink and put it on the table with a thunk. ‘Another?’
‘We are not our parents, Thea. We don’t have to be them. And anyway, they were never perfect. Far from it in some cases.’
‘I know.’ She finally understood that.
‘It might not look as though much changes,’ he said, glancing up at the low ceiling and ancient beams. ‘But it does.’
She got up to order another round of drinks.
‘And what about your mother? Brothers? Sisters?’ he asked when she returned. ‘No boyfriend to lean on?’
Thea gave an awkward laugh. ‘Let’s just say that I’m better at hockey than relationships.’
The next afternoon, although visiting hours had finished half an hour earlier, Thea slipped past the nurses’ station and along the corridor to the ward where Mr Battle lay. Once inside, she tiptoed to the only occupied bed. There was an arrangement of purple lilies, the same as the one in Mr Dickens’s buttonhole, on the nightstand nearest him, but little else punctuated the antiseptic grey and cool blue.
His eyes were closed, so she waited a while as he slept. As she made to leave, he snapped to attention, his gaze fixed on hers.
‘Sorry if I’m disturbing you. I just …’ she faltered. ‘I came to see how you were doing.’
He grunted and gave a terse laugh. ‘You haven’t killed me yet.’
Thea smiled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Nothing gets past me,’ he said, a faint note of pride in his voice.
‘So I’m beginning to learn,’ she said ruefully. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Never better.’
‘So I can see.’
He paused, swallowing. ‘It’s my life. The school.’
Thea nodded. Tears of sympathy pricked her eyelids. She knew it had cost him to admit that.
‘And I can’t say I’m happy about the changes. Tradition,’ he said, biting down on the word. ‘That used to stand for something, not that you’d probably know much about that. Being from the colonies and all.’
Thea ignored the barb, knew he was baiting her, just as he had done the first time they’d met, though this time she realised it was meant to tease not taunt. ‘It still does,’ she replied. ‘The school isn’t losing anything. It’s only gaining. Do you think you might perhaps be confusing tradition with history? One can evolve, you know.’
Battle spluttered, and she thought for one awful moment that she might have pushed him too far, but his breathing quietened and he motioned to the cup of water by his bedside. She reached for it, holding it to his lips as he swallowed.
THIRTY-SEVEN
July 1769, Oxleigh
Unable to lie abed a moment longer, Mary rose as the sun began to clear the horizon, swiftly washing her face before dressing with care. She cinched her stays over her chemise, laced the bodice of her gown over her stomacher and shook out the creases in her skirt from where it had been packed in her trunk. After buttoning her sleeves, she combed out her hair before pinning it under her bonnet, grimacing at the frayed brim and outmoded style of her headwear.
Her stomach was wound in far too tight a knot to accept any breakfast, though she did sip a little of the tea that was offered to her when she descended the stairs and entered the dining room. As it was still early, the room was quiet, with only a few other guests already about. She forced herself to drink as she waited for the clock to sound the hour. When it struck eight times, she knew she could wait no longer and returned to her room to collect the second length of fabric that Bridget O’Neill had woven.
Mary walked along the high street with a determined expression that belied the roiling in her stomach. It was market day and the centre of the street was taken up with all manner of stalls, so she kept to the edges, skirting the flower-sellers and the cheesemongers, the bakers and those with baskets of eggs and river fish. When she reached the front door of the merchant’s house, she didn’t allow herself to hesitate, rapping soundly with her fist.
At first there was no movement within, but after she knocked once more, she heard footsteps approaching.
A maid with a curious scar across one eye came to the door. ‘We do not open for another hour or more, if it’s the shop you are after,’ she said, her vowels soft and rounded.
‘No, no. I am after Patrick Hollander. He is the mercer, is he not?’
The girl nodded, and said yes he was. ‘But I am afraid that he is not hereabouts.’
Mary could not believe her ears. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of him not being there, had gambled everything on confronting him that morning. She thought despairingly of her mother’s beautiful necklace in the greedy hands of the pawnbroker.
‘He has been gone these two days past,’ the maid added.
‘But I have come from London,’ she said, unable to keep the desperation from cracking her voice. She did her best to marshal her scattered wits, to assemble her thoughts into some kind of order. ‘My name is Mary-Louise Stephenson.’
The maid regarded her blankly. ‘Was he expecting you?’
‘We are in business together. At least – ’ She indicated the bundle under her arm. ‘That is what I was led to believe.’ Mary spoke more loudly than she had intended and the maid looked over her shoulder into the street, where a number of passers-by were starting to stare at her curiously. ‘He should have been in receipt of the first of my fabrics, a purple flower pattern.’
The maid startled. ‘You had better come in,’ she said. ‘I can ask my mistress what might be done.’
Mary found herself ushered up a staircase and into a large morning room where a fire burned brightly in the grate. ‘She may be a short while, for she is not yet risen. She has been indisposed …’ The maid’s voice trailed off in embarrassment and Mary felt all at once quite out of place. The inappropriateness of her errand, at such an hour, struck her. Women of her station in life, however impoverished, did not call unannounced.
‘Perhaps I might …’ she ventured. But it was too late, for the girl had left the room. Mary carefully placed the bolt of fabric on the chaise next to her, undoing its wrapping and spreading it out. She glanced around, noting the luxurious window hangings and the thickness of the rug under her feet. Patrick Hollander was a man of some considerable means. That he lived in such comfort, all the while apparently callously disregarding her, sparked the flame of her anger back into life, steadied her resolve.
When Mistress Hollander entered the room, Mary could see that she was obviously with child, her embroidered stomacher doing little to hide the swell of her belly.
‘I beg your pardon for calling at such an early
hour – ’ she began, getting to her feet.
‘Not at all. I have been most curious to meet the designer of such entrancing silk,’ Caroline said as she sat down, inviting Mary to do the same. ‘I understand from my maid that you are responsible for the belladonna fabric design?’
Mary nodded. ‘I am pleased to learn that it did arrive, for I have had no communication from Mr Hollander in regard to payment for my – and my weaver’s – work. I have also brought the second design that he commissioned.’
‘Yes, I can see.’ Caroline reached over to inspect the fabric that Mary had displayed, running delicate fingers across its surface. ‘I am most desirous of having this design as well. I shall have Jeremiah, our shopkeeper, arrange for you to be paid.’
Mary allowed herself a small smile and her shoulders, which had been taut with the strain of her errand, eased. Perhaps in dealing with Mistress Hollander she would be fairly treated at last? ‘That is most pleasing to hear. However, there is the fact of the other length of fabric, for which I have not been recompensed.’ Mary didn’t like raising the subject of money with a gentlewoman such as Mrs Hollander, particularly one in her condition, but she pressed on regardless of both of their sensibilities, for the idea of returning to Spitalfields with the matter unresolved was unthinkable.
‘I am afraid that I cannot assist with that,’ she replied. ‘For I am ignorant of your arrangement with my husband in that regard. You will have to wait until he returns. He is away to Devizes, I believe, for a supply of cassimere and drugget. Perhaps call again tomorrow?’ She stifled a yawn and it became clear to Mary that her welcome at the merchant’s house was wearing thin. She was left with no choice but to accept payment for the silk she had brought, and to wait on Mr Hollander for the other.
Mary left the merchant’s house with a note and a clutch of guineas in her pocket from the sale of her fabric. Though she had negotiated only gently with Mrs Hollander, she had been pleased to be fairly paid. The money would go some way towards paying back the pawnbroker and she would be able to afford a few more nights at the inn, for she was determined to stay and confront Patrick Hollander. Having made the journey to Oxleigh, she was not about to leave having been only partly successful in her mission. She wanted to see him for herself, to find out why he had broken their agreement.
As Rowan returned to the morning room her attention was immediately caught by the fabric that was displayed on the chaise next to her mistress. Pale and lustrous, it seemed to concentrate all the light in the room, drawing her eye to its irresistible beauty. She did not feel the same sense of disquiet upon contemplating this design as she had with the other one; indeed, this delicate pattern of wildflowers was positively joyous.
‘Exceptional, isn’t it?’ said Caroline. ‘She is a woman of unusual talent.’
Rowan nodded in agreement.
When Mary left the merchant’s house, she had no desire to return to her lodgings immediately, for it was still early, and so she decided to explore the surrounds. She wandered the length of the high street and then continued past where the cobbles ended along a dirt path that led out of the town. A swift-flowing river ran alongside the path, just far enough away to prevent unwitting travellers from falling in. It wasn’t long before she reached a mill, its wide paddlewheel turned by the fast-flowing millrace. The noise from the machinery and the grinding stones and the water was almost overwhelming, but she was mesmerised by the rushing water.
After a while she turned to leave, but stopped as she saw a young woman standing almost directly behind her on the track. ‘Oh!’ she cried, for she had imagined herself alone. ‘You are the maid from the merchant’s house. Did you follow me?’
There was no answer.
‘It cannot be coincidence that I come upon you here.’
Rowan bobbed a curtsey. ‘Begging your pardon, mistress, but it is the fabric – the first design. I saw it when it arrived …’ She hesitated. ‘I wanted to warn you. It is only that those plants contain a dark magic. ’Tis bad luck to meddle with them unless you have the knowledge.’
Mary scoffed. ‘It is mere weaving. What possible harm could come to the wearer of such fabric? Mistress Hollander seemed pleased enough with it. And who are you, a serving maid, to question that?’
Rowan cast a furtive glance around and hurried past. ‘Good day to you, my lady.’
‘One moment,’ said Mary, for a thought had recently occurred to her.
‘Yes, mistress?’ Rowan turned back to face her.
‘I was saddened to hear of the passing of Mr Hollander’s mother. I do hope she did not suffer.’
Rowan looked at her blankly. ‘I’m afraid I am unaware of such an occurrence, mistress, though I have been at the merchant’s house not even a year. Perhaps it was before my arrival? I confess I have never heard my master speak of his mother.’
‘I see. Then I must have been mistaken.’ Mary’s suspicions were confirmed. She was indeed dealing with a liar and a cheat. As to the maid’s superstitious warning about the fabric – well, that was nonsense. Nevertheless, she felt a momentary misgiving as she recalled her sister’s words about the design, of her desire to be rid of it from the house.
THIRTY-EIGHT
July 1769, Oxleigh
The following day, Rowan was blacking the steps in front of the merchant’s house, and did not notice the pattern-drawer, Mary Stephenson, approach until she stood directly in front of her.
‘I heard tell that Mr Hollander is returned,’ Mary said as Rowan paused in her efforts, tucking an errant strand of hair underneath her cap.
Rowan gave a slight nod. ‘He is much preoccupied,’ she said, knowing that her master was in one of his more capricious moods, having upturned one of the dinner dishes the previous day on discovering that the meat was not cooked to his liking.
‘Well, I have even more to preoccupy him,’ said Mary, marching up to the door to the shop and pushing it open.
Though she had nearly finished her task, Rowan tarried a while, curious as to what might happen. She did not have to wait long, for the door remained propped open and she could readily see into the shopfront, where Jeremiah was helping her master select the bolts of fabric that he was to take to Bath later in the week. She nearly jumped backwards into the path of a cart at her master’s shout of surprise when Miss Stephenson entered, but then, despite risking a reprimand or worse, she slipped in and tucked herself behind the open doorway, where she was in a position to overhear everything.
‘Madam.’ After his initial outburst, Patrick Hollander’s voice was controlled. ‘I confess I hardly expected to see you in these parts, come so far from London.’
Rowan heard the steel in Mary’s voice as she answered him. ‘I should not have cause to come were it not for your complete abandonment of our agreement. An agreement made in good faith, I might add, for I took you to be a gentleman of your word. Did you set out to cheat me?’
‘In truth I did not,’ he said, sounding astonished. ‘You have my assurance of that.’
‘I fear that is worth little,’ Mary scoffed.
He looked blankly at her. ‘Miss Stephenson, I confess I became convinced that you had reconsidered our agreement, for I had heard nothing at all further. Indeed, were I not so taken up with other matters of business, I surely should have returned to demand the coin I advanced you, on my next visit to the capital.’
‘But I sent the fabric. Months ago.’
‘And your proof is?’ he opened his hands, threw his arms wide. ‘For it is nowhere hereabouts.’
Patrick appeared bemused.
‘Surely you cannot deny that you received it. Your own wife has informed me that she admired it so much that it was fashioned into a gown for her.’
‘I do know the fabric you speak of,’ he admitted, realisation showing on his face. ‘But as I was not here when it arrived, I had no inkling that it was your work.’
Mary could not help but make a disbelieving sound in her throat at such a flimsy denial. ‘W
ould your man not have recorded its arrival in your absence?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘There is nothing in the order book.’
Rowan could not believe what she was hearing. Despite her feelings towards her master he was still her employer and because of that she owed him loyalty, but the realisation that she found herself in a house of liars and cheats vexed her honest soul.
‘But I have your wife’s assurance that it was delivered. Does that not count?’
‘Miss Stephenson,’ Patrick said. ‘My wife has been under a great deal of strain, her condition … And as you can see, I am taken up with other matters at the present. Perhaps you might call again tomorrow afternoon when I have had the opportunity to review the ledger and we can rectify this little misunderstanding.’
‘It might be a trivial misunderstanding to you, sir, but to me it is my livelihood.’
‘Of course, I have no doubt that this will be satisfactorily resolved, but I really cannot help you until I have conducted a further investigation.’
Rowan forced herself to hold her tongue as she overheard Mary agreeing to return the following day. She knew that her master was leaving for Bath the following morning and that he would not be there when Mary was to call again. Like a cunning spider, Patrick Hollander was weaving a web of lies, but would he be the one caught in his own trap?
Later, Rowan made her way to the butcher and placed Prudence’s order for more mutton, still mulling over the knowledge of her master’s perfidy. The butcher regarded her unhappily. ‘The account is some three months outstanding. Please inform your master that this is the last time I can supply his order until I receive payment.’
As Rowan left, it began to dawn on her that this was more than an oversight. She remembered seeing Prudence arguing with the greengrocer only the week before. When Prudence noticed that she was within earshot, she had explained it away as potatoes riddled with mealworms, but now Rowan was not so sure. Was money – the lack of it – the cause of her master’s erratic behaviour? Had he gambled away their fortune? Or had he overreached himself in Bath? Or did he simply have so little grip on the reality of things?
