The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  When she slept, finally, she dreamed of returning home to find all unchanged, the vicarage full of activity and laughter as it once had been, the fires lit, the family foursome intact. She fell into her mother’s embrace, smelling the mingled aromas of laundry soap and garden herbs that, to Anna, spelled love and security.

  When she woke in the early hours and realised where she was the tears came at last, wetting her pillow with long, racking sobs that seemed to shake her whole body. How could she think of leaving that beloved place? But how could she return to it, when she would never again feel her mother’s warmth?

  Yet next morning her mood seemed to rise with the sun. She was sorry to discover that the kindly gentleman was not joining them again, but stepped aboard the coach full of optimism at the prospect of another day of travel, even venturing a smile at the only other passenger, a smartly dressed lady. After twenty-four hours of barely speaking to another person she would have welcomed a conversation, and was disappointed when the lady immediately took out her spectacles and opened her book.

  She turned to her own thoughts, excited at the prospect of seeing at first hand all that she had heard about the great metropolis, and of making the acquaintance of her uncle and aunt, and her two cousins. After being confined to the house caring for her mother for such long, dutiful months she yearned to spread her wings and see the big city, and they had generously offered her this opportunity.

  In the early afternoon, they stopped at a village to pick up two gentlemen who appeared to be father and son, and the coachman invited the ladies to disembark for what he called ‘a fine view of the city’.

  At first, Anna could make out only the River Thames, reflecting the sun like a silver snake along the valley beneath a reddish-brown pall of smoke. As her eyes adjusted to the distance, she could discern ribbons reaching out towards them and in every other direction. After a few moments she came to realise, with astonishment, that these were streets of houses, in their hundreds, even thousands. The numbers of people all these buildings might contain was barely imaginable. In the densest part of the city before them, along the river’s edge, barely a speck of green could be seen; not a tree, not a field in sight.

  How will I ever survive in such close proximity to so many others, all breathing that smoke-filled air? she wondered. Her village had but three hundred souls, with fields and woods occupying all the land to one side, sand dunes and the great empty sea to the other. What will I find to paint, in a place with no flowers or trees, no butterflies or birds?

  Turning restlessly in the attic bed, she felt empty and emotionless, as though travelling at such an unaccustomed pace had caused a part of her soul to be left behind. She had waited so long for her ‘big adventure’ to start. But now that she was actually here, everything seemed so strange and unfamiliar, even frightening, that she longed to be back in the comfortable familiarity of the countryside.

  2

  A lady ought to adopt a modest and measured gait; too great a hurry injures the grace which ought to characterise her. She should not turn her head on one side and on the other, especially in cities, where this bad habit seems an invitation to the impertinent.

  – The Lady’s Book of Manners

  Anna woke early with the sun pouring through the windows of the attic room, wondering at first where she was. And then she remembered. All was silent downstairs and even the restlessness of the city seemed to have been stilled. It must be very early, she decided, and climbed back into bed to wait until she could hear the family stirring.

  The events of the previous few days ran through her head: her father’s sorrowful face and her sister’s tears as they parted; the yowling babies in the coach; the kind gentleman at Chelmsford; the frightening chants of the crowd and the swift evasive action by the coachman. She wished she understood why the townsfolk were so angry about bread. Surely this was something everyone, even the poor, could make for themselves?

  And those French boys, at the Red Lyon. Her cousin had treated them harshly but in the new light of the morning she felt more generously disposed towards him: surely he had only been concerned for her safety in the heat of the moment and had meant no harm?

  Recalling that strange turn of events, she found it surprising all over again that she had not felt more alarmed on finding herself in the arms of a stranger – and he not even a gentleman. She smiled to herself, remembering how tenderly the young man had spoken to her, the warmth in his eyes and the sweet, nutty smell of him, like dried beech leaves in the late autumn sun.

  She must have drifted off again, for the next thing she heard was the maid knocking at the door, with a fresh jug of water. She quickly washed and dressed, and went downstairs to find the family already seated at the most sumptuous of fast-breaking meals she had ever encountered: no fewer than three sorts of breads, butter, honey, marmalade and cherry jam, oatmeal with sweet cream, smoked herrings, cold veal pies, grilled kidneys and coffee. This last was a most fashionable drink, she had heard, but she found it to be dark and bitter-tasting. She would have preferred tea and just a slice of bread and honey, but felt it impolite not to taste at least a small piece of everything they pressed upon her. By the end of the meal she was afraid her stays – already well worn – might give out completely.

  Aunt Sarah outlined her plans for the day: ‘First thing after breakfast, we must see about your wardrobe.’

  ‘You are very kind, but I do not wish to put you to any expense,’ Anna said hurriedly, since she had but the few pounds Father had pressed into her hands before she left. ‘I have two other dresses, a blue and a brown, and several shawls and bonnets.’

  ‘You are in the city now,’ Aunt Sarah said firmly, ‘and you must be attired accordingly. We cannot have people mistaking you for a maid, can we? You must wear the best of silks – what else would the niece of an eminent mercer be wearing? Besides, you are of an age now to be settled –’ Lizzie giggled into her hand ‘– and I am sure I need not explain why your appearance is of the greatest possible importance.’

  Sarah helped herself to a further generous slice of pie. ‘This morning, my dressmaker will measure you and show us her patterns, and then we shall go downstairs to the shop to choose the silk. I think five dresses might suffice for the moment – two day dresses, two evening gowns, and a further gown and jacket for Sunday – do you think so, Husband? And of course a cape for cool evenings.’

  Joseph grunted into his newspaper but Lizzie was listening intently. ‘Which dressmaker are you using?’

  ‘Miss Charlotte, as usual. She is my favourite,’ Aunt Sarah said.

  ‘Do make sure she offers the latest fashion, Mama, and the right kind of design: a small floral pattern, perhaps, or fine stripes. And with lots of lace; it is so pretty close to the face.’ Anna wondered how the girl had become such an expert at her young age.

  ‘Have no fear, dearest. By the time we have finished, your cousin will be the talk of the town.’

  ‘Oh, it’s so exciting!’ Lizzie cried. ‘I wish it was me, getting new dresses.’

  Anna felt more alarmed than excited. Fashion had not entered her world before; anyone dressed too modishly in the village was considered to be puffed up, and it was not in her character to enjoy being thus noticed. Besides, the wet and windy weather at the coast was never kind to fine fabrics, and any form of headwear needed to be firmly tied around the chin.

  She felt as though she were a doll being discussed and dressed for the pleasure and enjoyment of others, regardless of her own feelings or views. But she had to accept, at least for the moment, that this was the fact of the matter: she would have little or no say in what happened from now on because she was both physically and financially dependent on her uncle’s hospitality. Obedience had never come naturally – her lack of it had often led her into trouble in the past – but everyone had her best interests at heart, she told herself, so she must follow their advice as best she could, so that she could learn the ways of this new world.

  Althou
gh it had never been articulated openly, she knew full well why she had to submit to her aunt’s attentions; why she must do her duty. Jane would never marry and would need to be looked after for the rest of her life. Their father had spent most of his savings on doctors’ fees trying to restore his wife to health, and little was left in the coffers to rent a home when he became too old to preach and they had to leave the vicarage.

  The family was dependent on Anna making an advantageous marriage, but she wondered whether that notion would ever coincide with her own longing to spend the rest of her life with someone she truly loved. She’d recently attended the wedding of a former schoolmate, a lavish affair paid for by the groom, an older man with large estates in North Suffolk, receding hair and an already expanding waistline. The girl had smiled bravely throughout the day and appeared to be entranced by her new husband, but the thought of sharing affectionate moments with such a man had made Anna shudder inside.

  Lizzie was banished to her lessons with a tutor while upstairs in Aunt Sarah’s bedroom Anna was stripped to her stays and every part of her body, even the circumference of her head and the length and breadth of her feet, was measured and recorded by the seamstress, Miss Charlotte.

  I will never make an elegant society lady no matter how beautiful the new dresses, she thought, regarding herself with dismay in the full-length glass. Her limbs were too long, her feet and hands too large, her fingernails short and roughened by housework, her wide-set eyes too bold and an inconstant shade of blue. ‘The colour of the changing seas,’ her father would tease her. ‘I can always tell when stormy weather is approaching.’

  Despite daily applications of lemon juice, the freckles that splattered her nose and cheeks were as bold and abundant as ever and her hair, although an acceptable shade of blonde, curled in unruly corkscrews that were almost impossible to restrain beneath a bonnet.

  I really do look like a servant girl. Or at the very best the hard-working daughter of a country vicar, which of course I am.

  ‘She’ll need two sets of stays as well, don’t you think?’ said Aunt Sarah, frowning at the well-worn undergarments. Anna could not remember how many years they had served – probably since the first time she’d been persuaded that a young lady should wear stays. She’d objected at the time but eventually obeyed because she knew it would please her mother, in whose life there seemed to be so little pleasure and so much pain. How long ago that girlhood seemed, and yet she was still only eighteen years old.

  Miss Charlotte continued her measurements without comment. A petite woman of indeterminate age, with small, intelligent eyes, she herself was modestly attired without even a bonnet, her dark hair tied into a neat bun that allowed just a few curls to escape, softening her plain face. After Anna dressed again, she was invited to sit at the dressing table where Miss Charlotte had set out pages of coloured drawings of skirts, bodices, gowns, coats, bonnets, hats and shoes in a confusing range of styles. ‘These are the latest designs for young women. Is there anything here that takes your eye, Miss Butterfield?’

  They all looked the same to Anna: the bodices over-puffed and over-ruffled, the skirts so wide and so gathered around the waist that she’d never be able to move without tripping over. And how would she get dressed each day without the help of a lady’s maid?

  The hats were so large that the wearer would have to take care passing through doorways, and they could certainly never be worn outdoors except on an entirely windless day. The shoes were so high of heel she felt sure she would trip with every step, and they would bring her head in line with that of the tallest man.

  Miss Charlotte and Aunt Sarah were engaged in a complicated discussion involving words like cornet, à l’anglaise, pelerine, stomacher, rabat and stole, that Anna had never even heard before. I must take lessons in fashion, she thought, if I am ever to take control of my own appearance. Perhaps Miss Charlotte would agree to be her guide; she seemed a sensible sort.

  Following much debate they chose four designs and Anna nodded assent, although in truth she could never imagine herself wearing any of them. Aunt Sarah pronounced herself to be well satisfied. ‘And now we will go downstairs to choose the silks,’ she announced.

  The first room they entered, at the rear of the house on the ground floor, was a very untidy office panelled with shelves sagging under the weight of leather-bound ledgers. At the window, overlooking the courtyard garden, was a table with a disarray of fabric samples, books and papers heaped upon it. In the centre of the room were three high wooden desks at which sat William and two other young men, at their accounts. As the ladies entered they put down their quills and leapt to their feet.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said her aunt. ‘This is my niece Anna Butterfield, who has come to live with us. And you already know Miss Charlotte, my dressmaker.’

  ‘Pa, it’s Ma and the girls to see you,’ William shouted in a vulgar manner, and after a short pause Joseph appeared from a panelled cubicle, with that passing smile that disappeared like a mirage.

  ‘Welcome to the beating heart of Sadler and Son, Mercers to the Gentry, of Number Four Spital Square,’ he boomed. ‘This is where we make the money to keep our ladies in the manner to which they are accustomed, isn’t it, lads? Now, back to work with the lot of you while we go next door to look at dress silks for my pretty young niece.’

  It was the almost overwhelming aroma that first accosted Anna’s senses: a concentrated essence of that same dry, sweet, nutty smell, she realised with a jolt, of the young man who had helped her yesterday. Now she understood: this was the smell of silk, the heady bouquet of confidence and prosperity. But the young man had not appeared to be wealthy and was not clothed in silk, as far as she could remember.

  She forced her mind to concentrate on what her uncle was saying: ‘This is where we keep samples from all the best master weavers in the area, so that we can show them to designers and dressmakers who supply the most superior people in the land. We had a commission from the Duke of Cumberland’s agent last month, did we not, my dear?’ he said to his wife. ‘And each week brings further rumours of a royal engagement. A royal wedding would certainly perk up trade.’

  Everything in the room was designed to impress. At the wide bow window was set an elegant oak table and damask-covered chairs clearly intended for the top people’s backsides, or at least the backsides of the top people’s agents. Wide oak floorboards gleamed with polish where they were not covered with a brilliantly patterned deep-red Persian carpet. On shelves around the room was arrayed a visual feast: a dazzling display of samples and rolls of silk in a rainbow of vivid, luminous colours, glittering golds and silvers, in all manner of designs and patterns.

  ‘Well, what do you think, young Anna?’ her uncle prompted. ‘We pride ourselves on dealing with the very best.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘But where does the silk originally come from? I mean, before it is woven?’

  ‘Well now, there’s a question!’ He pointed to a large square frame hung above the main doorway. A brass plaque announced it to be: The Life Cycle of the Silkworm.

  Inside the case, set out in a circle, were preserved specimens of the insect in its twelve stages, starting at the top with the moth. The moth lives but one day and never flies, read the label. In its short life, its sole purpose is to mate and lay eggs. From these hatch tiny, thread-like caterpillars that do nothing but eat mulberry leaves and multiply many times in size, before spinning hundreds of yards of the finest thread into a cocoon. Most cocoons end up as raw silk – a small hank of which, twisted and tied with a pink ribbon, was displayed inside the case – while others are allowed to hatch into new moths so that the cycle can start all over again.

  She read all of this with growing astonishment. ‘How extraordinary,’ she said. ‘Where do all these moths and caterpillars live?’

  His great booming laugh continued for several embarrassing seconds. ‘Dearest Anna, you have much to learn. Do you hear, Wife –’ he turned to Aunt Sarah ‘– our ni
ece thinks we have silkworms munching away in the garden!’ This was not at all what she had suggested – the notion was clearly ludicrous – but she bit her lip.

  ‘We do not keep the worms, nor do we spin the thread or weave it, my dear. The raw silk comes by ship from the East, places like Constantinople and China; it is spun and woven here in London.’ Anna knew all about wool, which, of course, was shorn from English sheep, and linen, which was produced from the flax that grew in the fields. But she’d never stopped to imagine where silk came from, and was astonished to learn that it originated in such exotic lands.

  ‘My father and his father before him were master weavers, as was I, before I became a mercer,’ he went on. ‘We have silk in the blood.’

  ‘But where are your looms now?’

  ‘Long gone, my dear. Haven’t been near a loom or held a shuttle for years. I tired of dealing with journeymen and apprentices – the trade is now so dominated by the French and they can be such a treacherous lot. No, there is more to be made from buying and selling, so when William joined me in the business, we sold the looms and turned to mercery, as you see before you.’

  Behind the door were shelves on which were stacked dozens of leather-bound ledgers. He pulled one of them down, laid it on the table and opened it. ‘See here, Niece. These are just some of the designs we have supplied to the top people in society.’

  As he turned the pages, she could see that each contained coloured drawings on squared paper with, on the opposite side, a list of complex instructions and abbreviations. On some of the pages were pinned clippings of fabric: the silk, she assumed, that had been woven to the painted design.