The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  Which was more easily said than done.

  6

  Never sit gazing curiously around the room when paying a call, as if taking a mental inventory of the furniture. It is excessively rude.

  – The Lady’s Book of Manners

  Anna gazed up at the enormous space above their heads, the soaring columns stretching vertiginously upwards to support rows of barrel vaults on either side. The ceiling, of ornate white plasterwork with gold-painted decoration at every corner, was even taller; she found herself wondering how they had ever managed to construct it at such a height.

  The whole effect, light-filled and – she struggled to find the right word – numinous, that was it, was perfectly designed to make you feel as though you were in the presence of something greater than yourself. Her father had once used the word to describe his own church at certain times of year, when the rays of the setting sun would reach through the west window, suffusing the altar with a warm glow.

  ‘You don’t need prayers and hymns to summon up spirituality when it’s like this,’ he used to say. ‘That sunset is doing me out of a job.’

  She understood exactly what he meant. Although she struggled to believe in the existence of God, she could always find solace in nature: the rising and setting of the sun, the light of the moon, the shape of a leaf, or the sound of the dawn chorus.

  The minister droned on, his words almost indecipherable as they reverberated through the huge space.

  The format of the service was recognisable but curiously different; she suspected that Christ Church was ‘higher’ than her father’s deliberately modest approach to worship. But the sound of the organ – so much more powerful than any she had previously heard, save for the time they had visited Norwich – was utterly thrilling, filling the church with muscular chords that seemed to vibrate through her body. The organist appeared to have perfect mastery of the lofty golden pipes hidden inside the carved wood casing high above the entrance porch at the west end of the church.

  She’d been delighted to discover that she knew most of the hymns and, emboldened by the mighty sounds of the organ, sang out with the strong soprano voice she’d developed from leading the church choir at home. Halfway through the first hymn she noticed that Aunt Sarah and Lizzie, flanking her on either side, were barely audible. Were they such infrequent churchgoers that they were simply unfamiliar with the tunes? Perhaps it simply wasn’t seemly to sing so loudly? She toned herself down to a whisper, listening to the choir and wishing that she could be among them.

  Aunt Sarah had regarded her with barely concealed astonishment, the previous evening, when she’d expressed her desire to attend Sunday service.

  ‘Is tomorrow a special day?’

  ‘No, nothing special.’ All she really wanted was an excuse to get out of the house.

  ‘Of course, you would have been required to attend every Sunday at home, you poor dears,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s very comfortable, that draughty old village church your father runs. He used to write of how your mother found it hard to tolerate the cold. Never mind, we shall take you to Christ Church tomorrow, won’t we, Lizzie? It’s all so very beautiful, and –’ her face brightened at the prospect ‘– many well-connected people attend.’

  Uncle Joseph and William, having awkwardly agreed ‘to keep the ladies company’, had subsequently discovered important reasons why they were unable to do so. So here they were, the three women of the family, all dressed up in their Sunday best. Anna had chosen her most modest gown – the blue damask – but even so had been obliged to borrow a shawl from Lizzie to cover up the wide expanse of décolletage. On her head she wore her new milkmaid’s hat.

  Aunt Sarah had insisted on powdering Anna’s forehead, nose and chin, and then rouging her cheeks and lips. After so much primping, Anna felt more appropriately dressed for a trip to the theatre or the music hall than for church.

  Now, strategically placed in a row halfway back from the altar – ‘so we can get a good view of the important people in their boxes,’ her aunt had whispered – Anna was able to peer discreetly at the other worshippers. When the minister quoted the passage from Matthew about it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God, she reflected wryly that few around her were likely to end up in Heaven. If he’s looking down at us, he’ll have an amused smile on his face, she thought. Everyone seemed so overdressed for Sunday worship, adorned in such fine silks, satins and lace, wigs and bonnets that she began to appreciate what kept so many weavers, mercers, dressmakers and drapers in business.

  Her mind wandered back to the tea party at the Hinchliffes’ two days before. It had not been a comfortable experience. Even before they arrived she’d found herself unsettled by the glimpse of Henri’s friend Guy in the mob shouting for ‘fair pay’ and after that, all the way to Ludgate Hill, her aunt had chattered endlessly about the Hinchliffe family, until Anna began to feel quite uneasy about meeting the people with whom her aunt was so obviously entranced.

  In the space of the fifteen-minute journey she learned that Mr H. was a highly successful mercer who frequently supplied fabrics for lords and ladies, bishops and Members of Parliament and even, on one memorable occasion, the old king’s mistress, the Countess of Yarmouth; that, as William had vulgarly explained, he had ‘married well’ to a woman of considerable means in her own right, and that his success was due, at least in part, to his wife’s family associations; that their elder son, Alfred, had joined the family firm and had married equally well; that the younger son, Charlie – ‘the same age as my William, and they are such good friends’ – was ‘an extremely eligible young man’ currently studying for the law; and that their daughter Susannah, who must be seventeen years by now – ‘my, how the time passes’ – was already so highly accomplished on the harpsichord that people came from ‘literally miles around’ to hear her, and Mrs H. had high hopes she might be presented at court next year.

  ‘She’s such a sweet young thing. You are similar in years, dear Niece, so I am perfectly certain you and Susannah will become the very best of friends.’

  But Anna had stopped listening, because their carriage had passed into the shadow of an enormous structure, the largest building she had ever seen. Even by tilting her head she could not see the top of its tall towers, and it seemed to take an age for the carriage to pass its immense length.

  ‘My goodness, whatever is that?’

  ‘St Paul’s,’ her aunt said impatiently. ‘You really must listen to what I am telling you, dearest Niece, so that you are fully prepared for your introduction to the family.’

  She had heard of St Paul’s Cathedral, had learned from one of her father’s books about how it had been rebuilt to a grand new design by the famous architect Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire, and read in the newspaper that the famous Italian artist Canaletto had lately come to London to paint it, but had never imagined that she might see it for herself. Nothing could have prepared her for its massive bulk of glistening stone towering over the city street. Christ Church had been impressive enough, but this was in another league altogether.

  ‘Sorry, Aunt, please go on. I really am listening,’ she said, tearing her eyes away from the extraordinary sight.

  Shortly after this they drew to a halt at their destination: a fine four-square building with wrought-iron gates. It was a world away from any house she’d ever visited before. Instead of whitewashed walls or wooden panelling, the walls of the hallway were covered in pink and white striated marble, the floor a chequerboard of black and white tiles. The ‘morning room’ was deeply carpeted, its walls covered and furniture upholstered in opulent shades of green and blue silk damask.

  Mrs Augusta Hinchliffe, a tall, horsey-faced woman with a prominent nose, artfully concealed her lack of natural beauty by the application of make-up and the distraction of an ornate confection of hair on top of her head. By some happy miracle the daughter, Susannah, had failed to i
nherit the maternal nose and was, as Aunt Sarah had described her, a ‘sweet little thing’ who seemed, both physically and in personality, completely overshadowed by the forceful presence of her mother.

  After the formality of introductions and the taking of chairs as directed by their hostess, two maids in immaculately starched uniforms appeared with teapots and plates of tiny saffron biscuits, and began pouring the tea into porcelain cups with handles so delicate that Anna feared to grip hers too tightly in case it shattered between her fingers.

  ‘How do you find our great city?’ Mrs H. asked her. ‘It must seem very exciting after your quiet life in the countryside?’

  ‘I like it very well, thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘And I am sure you have already been introduced to many interesting people since you arrived? Your dearest aunt and uncle are so well respected in their community.’

  ‘Indeed she has,’ Aunt Sarah jumped in before Anna could reply. In truth she had met barely anyone outside of the family, with the exception of Henri and Guy, who would surely fall outside Mrs H.’s category of ‘interesting’.

  ‘Charles will be joining us very soon,’ Mrs H. went on. ‘He is such a good friend of your cousin William, as you know.’ Although the prospect made her nervous, Anna couldn’t help being a little intrigued by this ‘man about town’ who bet on the horses and lived ‘for the moment’. He sounded lively, if rather raffish, and likely to be quite entertaining.

  Mrs H. began to recount how the family would be going to Bath for the whole of August to escape the heat of the city, and their plans for introducing Susannah into society. Aunt Sarah nodded along, apparently admiring every pronouncement and endorsing every opinion the other woman expressed. But it was when Augusta mentioned Thomas Gainsborough, the society portraitist who currently lived in Bath, from whom they were considering commissioning a portrait of Mr Hinchliffe as Upper Bailiff of the Worshipful Company of Mercers, that Sarah’s smile seemed to tighten into a grimace of burning envy. A couple of days ago Anna had heard her aunt mention the notion of going to Bath and Joseph’s response: ‘Absolutely not, Sarah, do you think we are made of money?’

  Fortunately the conversation now turned to the Mercers’ annual dinner in September, who else was likely to be there and who would be organising the seating plan for the tables. The way they examined and dissected the subject, it seemed that one’s entire future could be defined by the people with whom you shared company for a single evening.

  Anna turned to the daughter, who had barely spoken a word. ‘I am so pleased to meet you, Susannah. My aunt tells me you are a very fine musician.’

  ‘I play a little,’ the girl whispered, her eyes to the floor. ‘The harpsichord, mostly.’

  ‘You must play for me sometime.’

  Susannah nodded, and an awkward silence fell between them.

  ‘And are you musical, Anna?’ Mrs H. interjected.

  ‘I play the pianoforte and on occasion the small chamber organ in church, but very poorly,’ she replied, praying that she would not be invited to perform. ‘My real love is for painting.’

  ‘She has made a very fair representation of our Lizzie,’ Aunt Sarah said. Anna blushed. The portrait she’d painted for fun was truly dreadful but, to her great embarrassment, her cousin had insisted on showing it to her parents.

  ‘I prefer to paint natural things, trees and flowers,’ she replied.

  ‘I must show you our garden, dear Anna,’ Mrs H. said, waving her hand in the direction of the French windows. ‘We do love our flower borders. We have lately made the acquaintance of a famous botanist, a German fellow called Georg Ehret, who lives in London these days. Mr Hinchliffe recently made the purchase of that print.’ She pointed to the wall behind Anna. ‘We hope it will be the first of many.’

  It was a curious composition: a showy, pink-flowered Christmas rose with dark serrated leaves overshadowing a modest yellow winter aconite. Above hovered a peacock butterfly, surely the most unlikely sight, Anna considered, in early springtime when those two plants would be flowering.

  But it was not the curious composition that thrilled her, it was the draughtsmanship. Each part of the plants had been represented so realistically that she could almost feel them between her fingers: the rough edges of the hellebore leaves, the delicate yellow stamens, the veins of the petals. At last, she thought, someone who shared her joy of drawing plants.

  Her musing was interrupted by the entry of a very tall, thin-faced young man in a royal blue silk damask topcoat and powdered wig.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, making a formal half-bow. ‘I hope you will permit me to join you?’ His long nose was unmistakeably inherited from his mother.

  ‘Charles! How delightful to see you again,’ Aunt Sarah said, offering her hand. ‘Do please meet my niece, Anna Butterfield, lately come to the city from Suffolk.’

  ‘Enchanted, Miss Butterfield,’ he said, with a smile that seemed to soften the severity of his features. ‘William has told me of your arrival. I do hope you find our great city to your liking?’

  ‘Please sit down, Charlie,’ his mother urged. ‘You make me feel uncomfortable, looming over us like that.’

  His mother poured a cup of tea and offered him a biscuit – he took two – as he responded politely to Aunt Sarah’s inquiries about his legal studies. He turned to Anna, saying he now regretted very much that the family would shortly be leaving the city for the summer but, since he and William were such good friends, he was sure they would soon have the opportunity to become better acquainted in the autumn.

  She smiled, while taking care not to meet his gaze directly. Although not handsome, not in any respect, he was certainly striking; the phrase her aunt had used – ‘a fine figure of a man’ – seemed perfectly apt. But there was little kindness about his eyes; they were too piercing, too close-set either side of that prominent nose, and the cheeks were sunken so that in a certain light he looked almost cadaverous. The Adam’s apple bobbed conspicuously in his long neck whenever he spoke.

  Nevertheless, he seemed to be well mannered, genial and easy in conversation, and this confident demeanour, no doubt a consequence of his family’s comfortable position in society, did much to make up for the deficit of physical advantages.

  ‘I return to my earlier question,’ he said, taking a seat beside her. ‘I hope you find our great city to your liking? There is so much to enjoy, is there not?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have seen little of your great city, as yet,’ Anna replied. ‘But I understand that there is much to be learned and enjoyed. I look forward to making its acquaintance.’

  ‘Eloquently spoken, Miss Butterfield.’ Charles laughed with a horsey snort. ‘But let me give you a warning. There are parts of London with which you must certainly avoid making any acquaintance. Not everyone in this city is as genteel as those in this drawing room, nor is it everywhere the peaceful place that I imagine to be the country town or village such as your own. Sadly, not all of us are so fortunate. There is a dark underbelly of crime and misery in London which a young lady such as yourself should hope never to have the misfortune to encounter.’

  Anna’s curiosity was piqued. Perhaps Charles was more compassionate than she had at first thought. ‘Pray, tell me more,’ she said. ‘Why is there such misery? Why is nothing done to alleviate the suffering?’

  That startling snort again, more like a donkey this time. ‘What a charming sentiment. But do you not think that people should hold their fate in their own hands?’

  ‘To an extent—’ Anna began, but he continued talking over her.

  ‘If people are lazy and indolent, surely they deserve nothing better? If they commit crime, they should expect to endure the appropriate punishment. Are we not responsible for ourselves in this life? Ours is a civilised society; we are not savages who give themselves up to the fates, or depend entirely on some God-like figure to save us, I am sure you would agree, Miss Butterfield.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I beli
eve that it is the mark of a civilised society to care for its underprivileged members,’ she said. ‘And, in the end, as Christians, we must surely have faith that it is only God that can save our souls.’ Her words, spoken with some passion, dropped loudly into a room gone suddenly silent. Anna felt her cheeks reddening. It was not polite to disagree with someone on first acquaintance, she knew, but she found she did not care overly much. Charles crossed and re-crossed his lanky legs uncomfortably as the general conversation slowly resumed. To his credit, the face that had fallen so blank with astonishment at her pronouncement now lit up with an amused smile.

  ‘I see you are a young woman of strong views, Miss Butterfield. I look forward to many further such lively debates. But –’ he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in towards her ‘– perhaps not in front of Mama?’

  Anna found herself agreeing with a slight nod of the head and a raised eyebrow. She liked him better already.

  She’d been hoping to return the conversation to the subject of the German botanist, and perhaps be invited to take a turn around the garden but, just then, the ornate silver clock on the mantel struck twelve times.

  ‘Midday already,’ Aunt Sarah exclaimed. ‘We must not outstay our welcome, dearest Augusta. Our carriage will be waiting outside.’

  ‘Must you go so soon?’ Mrs H. said. ‘I was just going to suggest that Charlie and Susannah could show you the garden, before luncheon.’

  Anna opened her mouth to plead for just ten more minutes, then closed it again, knowing that it would only irritate her aunt. Nothing in city society was spontaneous, she was learning; all must be carefully planned and executed, because anything unexpected might endanger the established order of things.

  ‘I am sure we would both enjoy that very much, but it is so terribly hot today and I regret we have matters at home to attend to,’ her aunt was saying, standing to make her intentions perfectly clear and patting her skirts to ease out any creases. ‘When you return from Bath, perhaps.’