by Liz Trenow
‘Merveilleux, you are here!’ Guy embraced him forcefully, then shouted, ‘Friends, this is mon cher ami Henri Vendôme, journeyman working for the esteemed Monsieur Lavalle, hoping soon to gain his own mastership. He is here to sign the petition.’
Several dozen faces turned to look. M. Lavalle was well known, and his reputation high among both customers and weavers.
Guy took his elbow and steered him through the throng to the table. ‘Read this.’ He pulled forward a thick wedge of manuscript paper, roughly bound with string. Beside it was a separate single sheet. ‘Then make your signature here.’
To the Upper Bailiff and Assistants of the Worshipful Company of Weavers, Henri read. Please be informed that, in seeking a Peaceable Manner in which to resolve the Current Difficulties, we, the undersigned, do beg your Agreement and Support in the Publication of the attached Book of Prices, being a list of the Prices agreed to be paid for Making the different kinds of Work in the various Branches of the Weaving Manufactory.
The main document was around forty pages of close-lined script in columns laying out the prices for every conceivable type of silk under the many specialisms of weaving: the two main groups, the Black Branch and the Fancy Branch, followed by the Persians, the Sarsnets, Drugget-Modes, Fringed and Italian handkerchiefs, Cyprus and Draught Gauzes, and Plain Nets. It was a work of enormous detail and must have taken many days and many heads to agree and many hands to write down. Glancing through it to check the weaves with which he was familiar, Henri thought the prices seemed reasonable.
He took up the quill, dipped it into the inkpot, and signed.
Later that evening, after a meal of cheese with shredded buttered cabbage and some new season’s potatoes, Henri asked M. Lavalle if he could spare a few minutes to look at the design for his master piece.
He had been working on it for several weeks, and his master’s opinion was critical. Technically the design was good, he knew, although possibly a little too complicated. He’d been so keen to demonstrate his weaving prowess that he had incorporated as many complex techniques as he could. But it was the aesthetic aspect with which Henri was less confident: he sensed, without knowing quite how, that it fell short of his ambition.
On a table by the window he set out his sketches of flowers, leaves, swags and ribbons, and pieced together in order the several sections of point paper with its tiny squares that he had meticulously painted with watercolours and a fine brush, showing how the design would translate into woven fabric. Then he handed his master the handwritten pages describing how the warps, wefts and simples should be set up on the loom.
He tried not to fidget as M. Lavalle read in silence, occasionally lifting his head and checking the point-paper design. Finally, the old man finished reading, straightened his back, removed his velvet cap and brushed back his thinning hair.
‘Well, boy,’ he said, ‘I am impressed. Technically it would be a fine piece of craftsmanship, well beyond anything normally expected from someone of your experience. I know how capable you are, but might it not be better to make something simpler, easier to set up, quicker to weave, less likely to go wrong?’
Henri shrugged, suddenly deflated. ‘I wanted to create something unusual, something really eye-catching.’
‘A few years ago the mercers would have been fighting each other for it.’
‘A few years ago?’
‘When rococo was all the rage; the bolder and more ornate the design, the better. These days the ladies are after a much lighter touch. The new naïf, you know, simplicity, realism, delicate elegance.’
Henri felt the ground shifting beneath him. From the start of his apprenticeship he’d always admired the large, colourful designs of the famous masters of the day, such as James Leman and his father Peter. He realised now what a fool he’d been: fashions had moved on and he hadn’t even noticed.
‘Why do you think I prefer to weave damasks, plain silks and satins? They might not pay so well, but they are a lot less trouble because the designs don’t change with every season,’ M. Lavalle went on. ‘Take a look at what society ladies are wearing these days, and you’ll see what I mean.’
Henri shrugged his shoulders again. It all seemed so unfathomable.
‘Anyway,’ M. Lavalle said, folding up the point papers and setting them with the sketches in a neat pile on the table. ‘You will do what you think best. You are a very talented weaver and I would have no hesitation in recommending your Freedom, here and now. Almost any of the designs you have woven in the past year would prove you are technically capable. But if you really want your master piece to establish your reputation and set you on your way to a fortune, then you may have to give it some more thought.’
Mariette looked up from her sewing as they entered the parlour. ‘What did you think, Papa? Will Henri’s piece be a sensation?’
‘I will allow him to speak for himself,’ M. Lavalle said, jamming his hat onto his head and making for the front door with his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘I’m going for some air before we lock up.’
Henri looked into Mariette’s sweet, expectant face. He knew how much she admired him, like an older brother, but these days he had a vague and growing sense of a new kind of intimacy in the way that she responded to him: the teasing smile she sometimes wore, the way she cocked her head, the sideways glance of her eyes.
These subtle changes disturbed him. Mariette was still a child, growing prettier by the day, this was true, but in his eyes nothing more than a cherished and sometimes annoying younger sister. He felt sure that, in time, M. Lavalle would be seeking a good match for his daughter, the son of a wealthy and well-established weaver or mercer, perhaps, who could expect to inherit the business.
‘Well?’ she said.
He sighed, trying to find a way of telling her without betraying the fact that he felt totally dejected.
‘Surely it is not that bad?’
‘No, not at all,’ he said quickly. ‘Your father says . . .’ He hesitated and then tried again. ‘He says it’s technically good, but I think the design is old-fashioned.’
‘That is a certainly a problem.’
‘What I really need is someone who can predict next season’s fashions.’
She laughed. ‘You’ll need a soothsayer, then. No one can predict the whims of fashion.’
‘Then who decides what society ladies will wear?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It is so confusing. How does anyone work it out? Surely they cannot just imagine it out of nowhere.’
‘I suppose there are people of influence who come up with the ideas in the first place, and then everyone else follows them,’ she said.
‘And who are these people of influence?’
‘Mercers, designers, people in the trade . . .’ She tailed off. Then, after a moment, she gave a little yelp. ‘That’s it. I know just the person!’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Miss Charlotte. She was a friend of Maman’s and she made my Confirmation gown but I have not seen her much of late,’ Mariette gabbled. ‘She lives in Draper’s Lane.’
‘But I cannot afford to pay for her advice.’
‘I will ask her,’ Mariette said, putting her hand on his arm with a confidential smile. ‘As a favour for a special friend.’
Next evening after supper, Henri walked to Draper’s Lane and stopped outside the shop: Miss Charlotte Amesbury, Costumière. After ensuring that no one was watching, he peered through the small windowpanes at the models inside.
As he studied the lustrous drapery and elegant finishing of the gowns, the delicate designs of the fabrics with their lifelike flowers and leaves and their swirls of fine ribbons against backgrounds of cream or pastel damask, he realised with a sense of growing despondency that he must have spent the past ten years in a kind of dream. Why had he not, until now, taken more notice of the designs that fashionable people were wearing? He had been so keen to master the technical complexities of his craft that he had entirely forgotten the real reason why peopl
e love silk: it makes the wearer both look and feel beautiful.
He became aware of a pair of bright eyes peering back through the window. A slight, dark-haired woman was beckoning to him, indicating that he should come into the shop. He shook his head, but it was too late: she was at the doorway.
‘Is there anything I can help you with, sir?’
‘I was just looking,’ he muttered.
‘Anything in particular? Perhaps something for yourself? For a special occasion? I have some beautiful silk brocade waistcoats which would look well on a fine young gentleman like you.’
He knew it was just sales talk but he hesitated, intrigued by the bold, straightforward approach of this young woman and flattered that she would even consider that he might have the means to buy himself a silk waistcoat. She seized on his hesitation.
‘Why not come in for a moment? I can show you some designs you might like to consider, with no obligation whatsoever. You will never know, unless you see them for yourself.’
Once inside, she drew from the shelves several waistcoats in the most stunning colours and designs of brocade that he’d ever seen, laying them out across the counter and smoothing them with a fond hand, as though they were her children. She led him to a long mirror on a stand and held up one of the waistcoats against his chest.
‘How the bright colours emphasise your dark looks, sir.’ She spoke with such certainty, as if she truly believed he was the sort of person who might wear such a thing, and not a lowly French journeyman in scruffy linen breeches and serge waistcoat.
‘Madam, I must be honest with you,’ he said at last. ‘I cannot afford a waistcoat as fine as these. Please let me introduce myself. I am Henri Vendôme, journeyman weaver. My master’s daughter, Mariette Lavalle, mentioned your name and said you might be able to help.’
The professional mask broke into a genuinely warm smile. ‘I wondered as much,’ she said, producing from her pocket a note. ‘Mariette wrote to me this morning. You are most welcome, Monsieur Vendôme. She clearly thinks highly of you. How is the family faring? I have not seen them since her mother was so untimely taken.’
‘They are well, thank you. Mariette is growing up now – she is nearly sixteen.’
‘How the time passes. Now, how can I help you?’
As he explained his desire to find a fashionable design for his master piece that would help to establish his reputation, her pale cheeks coloured. ‘I am flattered that you consider me qualified to advise you. I am only a seamstress, but will do my best.’ She led him to the dressmaker’s dummies he’d spied through the window. ‘What do you see?’
‘I see a very fine silk damask in the most delicate pale yellows and greens,’ he said, feeling the quality between his fingers. ‘Are these the latest colours?’
‘Indeed they are, but what about this one?’ She indicated the third gown.
‘I see a coloured floral brocade on a deep cream damask ground weave,’ he said.
‘And the design?’
‘I see flowers . . .’
‘What kind of flowers?’ she pressed.
‘Simple ones, such as one might see in a garden, or in the fields.’
‘You’re getting the idea, Monsieur Vendôme. The new designs are lifelike, not stylised as in the past. Rococo is gone, naturalism is the new style.’ She ran her finger over the delicately woven daisies and harebells. ‘You see how small the designs are, just life-sized or less? A few years ago the fashion was all about exaggeration. The bigger the better, with giant flowers: roses the size of peonies and peonies the size of cabbages. Ugh!’
She reached over the counter for a bonnet and placed it on her head at a jaunty angle, pulling the ribbons beneath her chin so that the brim curved either side to frame her face. ‘What do you see now?’
‘A straw bonnet?’
‘Who wears this kind of bonnet?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s a countrywoman’s bonnet, of the style frequently worn by milkmaids. Young society ladies cannot get enough of them. Imagine, rich folk pretending to be poor milkmaids? It’s silly, of course, but all fashion is playful, and that is part of its charm.’
In just five minutes, Miss Charlotte had opened his eyes to an entirely new understanding. He thanked her warmly, promising to give her regards to M. Lavalle and Mariette, and walked back to Wood Street with his head spinning in an unsettling combination of uncertainty and excitement. One thing was now quite clear: the design for his master piece would be very different from the one on which he had been working.
But how and where he would find that new design, he had no idea.
Four days later Guy arrived just as Henri, Mariette and M. Lavalle were enjoying coffee and honeyed oat cake in the parlour after supper. They offered him a square of cake, which he ate hungrily in two bites. M. Lavalle invited him to have a seat and join them in taking coffee, but Guy remained standing, restlessly shifting from one leg to the other.
‘What news of the Book, lad?’ M. Lavalle asked.
‘The petition worked, sir. The Weavers’ Company Court of Assistants met last night and gave it their endorsement. Now it is going off to the printers. You’ll be getting your copy very soon.’
‘I shall cherish it,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘It shall take pride of place on the shelf next to the Bible, and we will read from it every night before dining.’
‘Don’t tease him, Papa,’ Mariette said. ‘It is a serious matter, this Book, is it not? Oh, do sit down, Guy, and have another piece of cake. You are making me nervous with your jiggling.’
‘Apologies, Miss Mariette,’ Guy said, perching on a chair, and reaching for the plate. ‘It is indeed a matter of life or starvation for us journeymen,’ he went on. ‘Not all masters are as scrupulous as you, honoured sir.’
‘I am well aware of it, my boy,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘And, sadly, neither are all mercers.’
There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in his words and, as no one was sure how to respond, silence descended on the little room. Eventually Guy ventured: ‘Have you further news?’
‘I’ve learned what was also on the agenda for the Court of Assistants this morning,’ M. Lavalle said, reaching for his clay pipe and charging it carefully with a pinch of his favourite twist.
‘And that was?’
‘A report into the increase in smuggled French silks over the past six months,’ he said. ‘It seems that more and more mercers are prepared to evade import duties in order to turn a quick profit, and at this rate there will be little or no work for masters, let alone journeymen, in this country.’
‘Which mercers are they? We should demonstrate.’
‘Demonstrations lead to violence, as you know only too well, Guy,’ M. Lavalle chided. ‘And violence achieves nothing. What we need is for the law to be upheld.’
‘Why is French silk so much in demand, when our silks are just as good?’ Mariette asked.
‘Your guess is as good as anyone’s,’ her father replied. ‘People suspect that it is all the more desirable precisely because it is restricted.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense, I admit, but such are the whims of the wealthy. Anything rare or hard to buy is especially prized, whatever the quality.’
‘What are the Weavers’ Company doing to stop it?’ Henri asked.
‘They refused to name names but I believe they suspect who are the worst culprits and may send inspectors. It’s an unpleasant task, and will cost the Company good money but it is worth it if they can get a few convictions, to deter others.’
‘The sooner the better,’ Guy muttered. ‘They are destroying us, les salauds.’
As Henri went to the door to say goodbye to his friend, Guy gave a crude wink. ‘La petite Mariette, she’s growing prettier by the day.’
Henri put his finger to his lips, closing the door.
‘She’s all eyes for you, my friend, you have to admit it. You could be in there in a flash.’ He pumped an index finger through a circle of fingers and
thumb.
‘Silence, sac à vin. She is the innocent daughter of a man whom I esteem as a father. I will not have you talking of her like that.’
‘Touched a nerve, have I? Remind me not to mention la belle Mariette, the nun of Wood Street, ever again.’ Guy started down the steps. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ he added, turning back. ‘Talking of pretty girls, guess who I saw the other day?’
‘By your own account there are so many women desperate for your charming company, I cannot for the life of me think.’
‘Not one of mine, one of yours.’
‘And who is that, then?’ It would be the sugared-almond seller, he felt sure. He’d managed to avoid her for nearly ten days now.
‘The English girl you rescued in the street a few weeks ago. What was her name?’
‘Anna,’ Henri said a little too quickly.
‘Aha! So you remember her well, my friend,’ Guy chortled, delighted. ‘Yes indeed, the fair Anna. She was in a carriage that stopped right beside me on the street. She seemed to recognise me and I tried to wave but it moved on.’
Henri forgot to pretend that he was not intrigued. ‘A carriage? Did she look well? Was she alone?’
‘She looked délicieuse, my friend, dressed up to the nines, in one of those milkmaid’s bonnets that are all the rage. She was with her fat aunt, the wife of that two-faced mercer Sadler, en route to show her off at some society tea party, I don’t doubt. They’ll have her wed to some rich bastard before you can say “private income”.’
‘Two-faced?’
‘I’ll wager you half a livre that he’s one of the mercers Monsieur Lavalle was talking about, my friend. He’s got it coming to him.’
Watching him walk away, Henri noticed a new arrogant swagger to his friend’s stride. Hopefully, once the Book of Prices was distributed and the masters were obliged to pay fair rates, he would settle down and get on with making a living, instead of complaining all the time.
Guy’s barbed comments about the English girl pained him. She had seemed so straightforward, with none of the airs and graces most girls seemed to have. Still, she was far beyond his reach, so he may as well stop thinking about her.
