‘See, Zachary, how fine the work is. Only in Flanders do you get such fine work.’ Leviston’s eyes were alight.
‘Fine indeed.’ And, true enough, he had to admit that he could grasp the skill of it. He had never paid lace much attention before. He gazed a moment at the delicate white strands draped over his skin, trying to understand the movement the bobbins and needles must make – thousands of tiny parries and thrusts for one hand-span of lace.
Leviston smiled at him, the stiff smile of a man unused to smiling. ‘I knew you’d have a feel for it,’ he said, ‘it’s in the blood.’
Zachary forced himself to beam back, and Leviston clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. The apprentice gawped like a bedlam fool from one to the other, but Zachary glared at him. He did not like his uncle’s sudden affection. The apprentice sidled away, brushing the flecks of cotton waste from his sleeve.
The warehouse, one of many, was the size of a large stable, with bays of shelving stacked with brown and green oilskin-wrapped parcels. If this was all lace, then it represented the flying hands of thousands of working women. A fleeting memory of his mother’s face came to mind. She would have been amazed to see it. But as far as he knew, Leviston never deigned to bring her here.
He glanced over to where Leviston was now talking with the overseer, a man introduced to him as Wilmot. Wilmot was a solid dull-looking man, with a long pale jaw, wispy yellow hair and a beard shaped like a spade. He was listening hard, hands propped on a measuring cane, leaning forward slightly to catch his employer’s words. They were discussing shipments and prices.
With all this, Leviston must really be a rich man. So it begged the question, why had he let his house get so rag-a-tatter? Zachary scanned Leviston’s unfashionable doublet, which was almost threadbare, and wondered why his gangling daughter had been dressed in such an uninspiring faded green wool, with the elbows worn thin. Zachary shook his head. If he owned all this – well, he’d be choosing new suits every week; fine slashed velvet, gold-tipped lacing, all the new fashions from France.
Wilmot and Leviston were still deep in conversation. When they’d done, Leviston said, ‘My apologies for that. Just a few bits of business to clear up. Come, I’ll take you over to the tavern and we’ll have something to eat and a warm ale. It is always draughty in the sheds when the ships come in, and they’ll be another hour or two unloading.’
‘That sounds fine,’ he said. ‘It’s all been most interesting.’ He put on his gentleman’s voice, to sound more learned.
His friend Gin Shotterill always used to say, if you speak like they do, they’ll think you’re one of them. Otherwise they’ll think you a fool.
The twelve-penny tavern was cold and cramped, despite being the haunt of gentlemen, and they had to wedge themselves side by side into a seat with no window. The back door partition was behind them with its whistling draught.
Zachary had no wish to continue a conversation about grades of lace, so after they had supped on what was put in front of them and exhausted the small talk about the dubious quality of the ale, Zachary told him he would like to meet up with a few of the fellows in Hanging Sword Alley for some fencing practice, before returning to West View House.
‘Of course,’ Leviston said. ‘I will tell the kitchen hands to wait the evening meal until seven, shall I?’
‘If that’s not too inconvenient, sir,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to put the household to any trouble.’
‘Not at all, not at all. I’ll arrange it. We will have a chance to talk business afterwards. There are some new samples of goldpoint I’d like to show you – from Brussels. Not bad, some of them. There’s a good profit margin in them, though the weave is not as dense as the French. An ounce of gold will go further, I think.’
Zachary nodded, though he was not much enamoured of spending a whole evening poring over women’s fancies – a waste of good gold, in his view.
He was mulling over better uses for gold when Leviston suddenly said, ‘Is your mother often in your thoughts?’ His voice was gentle.
Zachary was momentarily nonplussed, not understanding. Then he realised. Leviston had taken his staring into space for melancholy.
‘Not so often now,’ Zachary replied guardedly, twisting his head sideways to look at him. He feigned a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘After all, life goes on. It is ten years since and I have seen many neighbours and friends go since then, and in the end, death is not such a strange thing.’
‘But different, surely, when it is your own kin, and her so young.’
‘True.’ He could sense a conversation coming that he did not want to have. He could think of nothing to say that did not give away his feelings, so he offered a platitude. ‘Death keeps no calendar.’
‘Indeed no. And you are aware that it is some years since I lost my wife.’ Leviston waited for Zachary’s reaction, but Zachary kept silent. He would offer no condolences, out of respect for his mother.
They sat for an awkward moment, each waiting for the other to speak. Leviston did not seem to know what to say next, but he cleared his throat several times before taking another gulp of ale. Someone else came in and the bitter draught shivered up Zachary’s neck. Leviston shrugged an apology to Zachary with a rueful look as the door banged closed behind them. Finally, he said, ‘Your mother was a beautiful woman, you know.’ His voice held a kind of plea, but he was looking down, as if the ale in his tankard had suddenly become interesting.
‘Yes.’ Zachary was tight-lipped. He was damned if he would absolve him.
‘We were . . . close, once.’
‘Yes. She told me.’
‘What did she tell you?’ Leviston slid to the edge of the bench and turned sideways to look him full in the face.
Zachary paused. He knew what Leviston was implying, but he must be careful. Act surprised. He was supposed to think that Leviston was his uncle until he was told otherwise. He replied, ‘I know that she had a high regard for you, as a sister might.’ That much was true at least.
‘Then you might think well of me?’ Leviston wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, despite the draught from the door.
‘Of course. Family is family. I remember you from when I was small. I am delighted to have found my uncle again. I am in your debt, sir, for seeking me out after all this time, and for offering me your hospitality.’
‘She did not . . . I mean –’ Leviston swallowed before going on. ‘She did not speak of me as . . .?’ Zachary waited, watching his discomfiture, as if he was a fishfly on a hook. Leviston’s mouth worked a little before he could blurt out the words. ‘I am not your uncle, Zachary. You are my son.’
Zachary feigned shock, jerked back in his seat. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have never been your uncle. I am your father.’
‘My father?’
‘I am sorry if this comes as a shock. There is no easy way to broach it, I’m afraid. But you are of age, so I feel bound to treat you as an equal and tell you I am no relation to your mother. Your mother and I were lovers. When I stayed with her she called me “Uncle” so that you would feel comfortable in my company.’ His pale grey face had become mottled with red.
Zachary shifted uncomfortably on the seat. He was no longer sure he wanted to hear about his mother and this balding man before him. But he had no choice, Leviston was continuing. ‘We were lovers until she fell with child. But I was already married, you see, and my wife . . .’
Zachary found he had stood up and, to his surprise, righteous anger filled him. ‘Are you telling me you cast my mother aside? With never a second thought for either of us?’ He was surprised at how agitated he felt.
‘No, Zachary, it was not like that. Not as simple as that. It started as a business arrangement, but as it became more frequent, well, your mother grew in my affections. Things became complicated. Then you were born and . . . God knows, I wanted to be with her, with you both –’ Leviston paused. His fingers clawed at his collar and to Zachary’s horror he could se
e his eyes were swimming. Leviston pulled off his eyeglasses and wiped a hand over his eyes. ‘But you have to see I had a duty, a duty to Agnes my wife. She told me she was expecting a baby herself. I was caught. I could not abandon Agnes then. It tore me apart. You must understand that I—’
Zachary cut him off. ‘You chose, Uncle. You chose between your wife and my mother. You have played no proper part in my childhood, and yet you expect me to accept you now as my father! Well, it is too much to ask.’ Zachary faced him with difficulty in the confined space. ‘Pray pardon, sir, but I need time to think.’
He picked up his sword belt and girded it on with deliberate movements.
‘Please, Zachary, don’t go like this, let me try to explain –’
‘There is nothing more I want to hear.’ And with that he clattered out of the tavern and away up the street.
He did not know where he was going, just away from Leviston. It was too uncomfortable, listening to him talk. He did not want to know about his mother’s liaisons with this man. The thought made him sick. He buttoned his cloak against the wind and lowered his head, to try to stop the thoughts crowding in. He strode away down the street, dodging other passers-by.
He had only a hazy memory of what his mother had said the night she died. He had been only twelve, so the words in his head were vague, although he had repeated the scene over and over to try to fix it there. In the morning he had found her lucky talisman – the finger-sized piece of Calvary wood she said was from Christ’s cross – still under her pillow. And with it the letter. He had kept them both all this time. They were the last of her, and he could not let them go.
His mother had meant well, of course; she was like a dog who would fight wolves for her pups. And Zachary had not been surprised at first that Leviston never appeared, and he had been glad. Neither had Zachary bothered to look for him. Leviston had always seemed too stiff and formal; Saul and Kit had mocked him, called him Uncle Carbuncle. At least his brothers were familiar, and much as he hated them, he loved them too, though he would never have owned it. So he had tried to stick with his brothers with never a thought for Leviston, even when he was so hungry he had cried. Even when his ribs were so black and blue from his brothers’ beatings that he could not stand.
He had almost forgotten about Leviston entirely until a week ago. Until that piece of paper fluttered down in St Paul’s. He had passed those notices nearly every day and had hardly given them a second glance. Had it not been for the fact that the wind had gusted through the open door and the damned thing had fluttered to his feet, he would not be here now.
Nathaniel Leviston seeks his nephew, Zachary Deane, he had read with astonishment. The strangeness of the way that paper came into his hand, like a message from above, meant he could not ignore it; it was surely a sign from heaven. So he had taken himself to Leviston’s notary as the paper suggested, and from there to a meeting with Leviston himself, and to West View House. All in the space of a few days. Smooth – as if his life was all of a sudden sliding on greased pulleys.
And now, he had probably ruined it all, the one chance he’d ever had to better his lot.
He stepped aside to avoid the scarred beggar on the street corner with his rattling pan, and blinked away the image of his cut-throat brothers who were adept at whipping the pans from men such as these. Lord knows, he’d tried to make his way like them, through petty thievery and gambling. Though he was skilled it never did pay him much, but kept the wolf from knocking at his door until he was grown enough to make wagers on his sword-skills. For, if he said it himself, he was a neat hand with a blade.
He walked on up the road, blowing on his hands to warm them, and feeling unaccountably angry. Damn Leviston. Why could he not have just accepted him as his nephew? The only reason he’d agreed to go to West View House at all was that he needed proper training now from a real master of fence, if he was ever to whip his brothers, and for that he needed more money than he could get from his usual ‘trade’. He had thought to take a few things the Levistons would not notice once he had got inside the house, and sell them on.
He stopped to let a street-hawker with a tray of breadcakes pass. Perhaps he should abandon the whole idea of living at West View House. It was much more awkward than he thought. The daughter was obviously suspicious – she’d been going through his things. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through life as Leviston’s son; it would be a hard task to sustain and, besides, it was becoming clear that Leviston would be hard to stomach as a relation.
A voice calling from behind him made his heart sink. He turned reluctantly.
‘I’m sorry.’ It was Leviston, arriving breathless and hatless. He had obviously followed him up the road. ‘That was clumsily done. I’m no use with sweet words.’ He twisted his hat in his hands. ‘But it is out now, and I cannot withdraw it. I am a fool in matters of the heart, I know. Pray forgive me.’
Zachary paused and waited, his satchel clasped in front of his chest like a barrier. Nobody had ever apologized to him before like that. He did not know how to respond.
Leviston stuttered on, ‘I meant you to know the truth of it. It seemed only fair. But it would be an embarrassment – an embarrassment for us all, were it to be generally known.’
But you do not know the truth, thought Zachary, trying to organize his thoughts.
Leviston was still talking. ‘And you must get to know Elspet better before I tell her. That is, if it suits you, I was going to suggest that we ignore what I have told you and continue to call each other “Nephew” and “Uncle”.’
Zachary grasped at this. ‘I cannot call you “Father”.’ He was adamant.
‘But “Uncle”? Surely you can keep calling me “Uncle”, just as you used to when you were a boy?’
Leviston looked so pathetic standing there, all innocent, big eyes pleading, that Zachary’s nod had happened before he had time to think.
‘Uncle, then,’ Leviston said, patting him on the arm. ‘Come, let us take the carriage home.’
‘But I—’
‘Enough work for one day.’ Leviston linked his arm in Zachary’s. ‘Let’s get home to the house. I can go through the rest of the figures with you there.’
Zachary was not sure if he was disgusted with himself or relieved. What on earth had he done? He would have to go on pretending. But now it was worse; he’d missed his chance to tell the man the truth. As they strolled together up the street he consoled himself by thinking that if only his mother could see him now, side by side with the sober-cloaked Leviston, she at least would be smiling a proud smile.
Chapter 4
Elspet knocked at the door to her father’s study. Zachary had been in there for more than an hour and she had grown tired of waiting for them to emerge. Father opened the door and gestured her in. She squeezed in past the trunks piled high with books and the baskets with samples of lace.
‘Pray pardon, Father, but I wanted to talk with you about this month’s figures before we go in to the chambers tomorrow.’ She held out the thick ledger of bound vellum.
‘Ah.’ Father looked uncomfortable. ‘Come in a moment and sit.’ He cleared some cards of dusty cut-work from the only other chair. Zachary was sitting in the one near the window, the low-backed upholstered chair she usually occupied, a tankard of small beer on the sill next to him.
She sat, and Zachary looked her over.
‘We were just discussing the new bobbin-lace from Milan,’ Father said. ‘It has been selling well, much better than the needle lace.’
‘That’s because it sits flat, Father. The new soft collars demand something that will lie close. Ruffs with picot edges are no longer à la mode. Can I see?’
He handed her a fall of airy lace, almost transparent, but edged with tiny scallops and florets. ‘Oh, yes, it’s beautiful. I can imagine this round a silk collar. How much?’
‘Ten pence a yard. Not much profit, I fear – many bones, you see, for the making of it.’
‘If there’
s not much profit in it coming all the way from Milan, is there no way it could be manufactured here in England?’ Zachary asked.
She smiled at him, thinking that obviously he understood nothing of the lace trade. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The English specialize in tape lace and needle lace. Here, lace-making is a craft for the poor; it keeps them occupied. In Milan, there are whole factories of makers, almost like a proper guild.’
‘Well, no reason we could not do that here,’ Zachary said, picking up a bone bobbin from the desk and juggling it through the fingers of one hand.
She looked to her Father to catch his eye and garner some support. To set up a factory like that would be an undertaking quite beyond him. He was not as strong as he had been since his narrow escape from the plague. And his eyesight had deteriorated. Sometimes she had been obliged to quietly instruct Wilmot to return shoddy lace that would never have got past Father in earlier years.
But he looked away from her, and seized on Zachary’s words with enthusiasm. ‘Now there’s an idea worth thinking about. Expansion. Yes, I like the sound of it.’
‘But, Father, there is enough to do already. We can barely keep up with the orders as it is.’
Zachary was still juggling the bobbin with distracting deftness. ‘Then we need more supply, I would say, to meet demand.’
‘Quite right. It’s an excellent notion. I’ll run it past Wilmot tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Father,’ she said, ‘we’ll do that.’ The overseer would soon throw cold water on Zachary’s impractical idea.
Father paused, ruminating. ‘I was thinking, I don’t think it necessary for you to come to the chambers tomorrow, Elspet.’
‘Tush, Father, I always come with you on Fridays.’
‘And I’m sure there are other more productive things you could be doing than sitting in my chambers hunched over the figures. You should be socializing, calling on other young ladies, practising your music.’
She glared at Zachary. He was still playing nonchalantly with that infernal bobbin, and ignoring her. She wished he would go, she did not want to argue with Father before him.
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