by Liz Trenow
Charles stood, offering his hand to Anna. She took it, embarrassed by the formality but knowing that it was expected. What she had not anticipated was that he would hold firmly onto her fingers and raise them, albeit briefly, to his lips. This forwardness made her feel mildly queasy. Already he was acting as though she owed him some kind of intimacy. The man is powerful, certain of his place in society, used to getting his own way, she thought to herself, not a person to get on the wrong side of. She would need to tread carefully around him.
At last the sermon came to an end, they sang a further hymn and were given the final blessing. Before she knew it, they were filing out of the church. Just as they reached the great doors to the outside, Anna caught sight of a familiar figure with dark hair tied back in a plait appearing from the organ loft stairs, but as she moved forward with the crowd the figure disappeared from view. Then, as her aunt exchanged pleasantries with other members of the congregation, and she and Lizzie waited in the welcome shade of the portico, she saw him again, walking directly towards them.
‘Miss Butterfield,’ he said, taking off his cap and making a small bow. ‘It is much pleasure to see you again.’ He was still dressed in his plain brown work clothes with scuffed shoes and no wig.
Lizzie cleared her throat loudly. ‘Anna, you should not talk to this boy,’ she whispered.
‘Monsieur Vendôme, is it not? Did I see you coming down from the organ loft? Are you the organist?’
‘Hah! I do wish it so.’ His laugh was infectious; she found herself smiling along with him, although she did not know why. ‘I am asked to help here because the underbeadle, the usual organ blower, is, how do you say it? Indisposé. They pay me a few sous.’
‘Organ blower?’
‘Who works the bellows. With big levers –’ he held his arms out wide ‘– to make the pipes to sound. I do this at my church – the French church.’
‘I thought you were a silk weaver?’
‘So I also have strong arms,’ he said, with that teasing grin again. His gaze had locked with hers in a way that seemed to shut out the world around them.
‘But this is an Anglican church . . . surely . . . ?’
‘I am Protestant too.’ It was not said sharply but she felt a pang of guilt all the same. ‘The Lord does not know any difference.’
‘Of course. I am sorry . . .’
Lizzie tugged at her sleeve. ‘Anna, we must go. Mother is coming.’
‘Goodbye, Monsieur Vendôme,’ she called.
‘Au revoir, ma belle demoiselle,’ she heard him say through the bustle of the crowd. ‘À bientôt.’
7
Drawing, like music, should be cultivated early. Its advantages are the habits of perseverance and occupation, which it induces; and the additional delight which it gives to the works, both of nature and of art.
– The Lady’s Book of Manners
My dearest daughter,
My heart brims with happiness and I feel trebly blessed to receive not one, but two letters, as well as your charming drawing of the garden in Spital Square, which is already pinned above my desk. You have captured the perspective well, especially the windows at the back of the house, and the light and shade of the mulberry tree is excellently drawn.
Your descriptions of Christ Church were so evocative that I could picture it easily. I dearly hope that I may come with you to that ‘numinous space’ one day. Perhaps we could also visit St Paul’s Cathedral, if it is not too far.
Your new gowns sound beautiful and I would love to see my girl all dressed up in her fine silks and milkmaid’s bonnet. Jane was green with envy when I read her this passage of your letter and I have already written to Sarah to thank her for her generosity.
All is well here but for your absence, which leaves this house very quiet. It seems an age since you left even though only four weeks have passed. Your sister is doing her very best to look after the house and we are muddling along with the help of Mrs M. and Joe, who I can see trying to tame the garden outside as I write.
My only concern, dearest Anna, is that I detect a certain loneliness in your words. Call it a father’s intuition. You write of spending time with your cousin Lizzie, and of taking tea with the Hinchliffe family, but there is no sparkle in what you write. As I have always insisted, there is no compulsion for you to stay if you are unhappy. But I would urge you to be patient: allow yourself time for settling in, and give it a further six months before making any decision. You have a questing soul and I am sure that there will be much to fascinate you in the city, once you get used to its ways.
You say that the garden is the only outdoor space in which you can paint, which is unfortunate. I know how much it means to you, to observe and paint the natural world. Would you like me to ask my sister if she can help you find a solution?
Write again soon. Your letters lift my spirits! God bless.
Your loving father
The letter only served to heighten Anna’s loneliness. The dear man! Although she had tried to conceal any hint of her unhappiness in her letters, he knew her too well. What she would give to see him once more, with Jane by his side.
I know how much it means to you . . . the natural world. The words reverberated in her head. This lack of freedom, of space, of green plants and open sky made her feel like a plant deprived of sunlight. The only glimmer of hope was that she might be able to visit the Hinchliffes’ garden – but now they had left for Bath and would not be back until the beginning of September: a whole month to wait.
One particularly hot morning, the walls seemed to bear in on her, crushing the breath from her body. She tried to read in the garden in the shade of the tree but, as the sun moved around, the heat became too much to bear. She went upstairs to read, but even with the casement at its widest the air at the top of the house was even hotter and muggier than in the garden. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes.
On hot days like these in Suffolk, once her chores were done, she might wander on the beach with Bumbles, throwing him sticks and perhaps even paddling in the sea. Behind her eyelids she could almost see the sun glittering like a million diamonds on the sea’s gently rippled surface, the delicate filigree of foam on the flat, wet sand left by the waves as they reached and receded. Sometimes she might persuade her mother and Jane to accompany her and the three of them would set out with a picnic and a large rug to spend the afternoon on the sand or in the dunes, gossiping and laughing, or quietly reading, relieved from the heat by the sea’s cooling breezes until the strength of the sun had abated.
The memory caught in her throat – Mother is dead, and those days will never come again. She took a deep breath, trying to summon the salty, seaweed tang of the beach, but all she could detect was the heavy odour of sewage and horse dung which clung to the city on these hot, airless days.
I can bear it no longer, she said to herself, feeling close to tears. If I don’t get into the fresh air, just for a little while, I will suffocate.
A sudden, reckless thought sprang into her head: what if she dressed as a maid, as she had that first day? If she could get out of the house without being noticed, she would be able to wander at will, for she knew no one and no one knew her. She tried to ignore the idea but it became insistent, her imagination taking flight as she saw herself wandering freely through the market, with its stalls of brilliantly coloured fruits and flowers.
Earlier, at breakfast, her aunt had announced that she would be out visiting for most of the morning. The men were in the office as usual and Lizzie was at her studies. If she didn’t go now, the moment would be lost.
Quickly, before she could lose her nerve, she removed her gown and took out her shabbiest linen dress and apron, tied an old cotton bonnet closely around her face and placed her sketchbook and pencils under a handkerchief in a small basket so that, if challenged, she could simply claim that she had gone out to buy a few items of shopping. With her heart pounding in her chest, she slipped noiselessly down the three flights of stairs, and
out of the front door into the blinding sunlight.
Despite the pounding heat, her heart lifted as she turned the corner out of Spital Square. She was free, walking unnoticed among the throng. The sense of anonymity she had found so daunting on first arrival now felt wonderfully liberating. She strode purposefully, keeping her head bowed so as not to meet anyone’s eye, holding her line along the pavement save when necessary to avoid the street hawkers and beggars who stepped into her way.
The market was but a few streets away, so she was certain of not losing her way. Sure enough, the odours of rotting fish and putrid meat wafting on the air confirmed that she was growing closer. She rounded two corners of the market square until more fragrant scents indicated that she was nearing the area of fruit and flower stalls that she and Lizzie had discovered last time.
Once again, as she entered through the arches and her eyes grew accustomed to the shade of the great hall, she found herself dazzled by the rainbow of intense colours, her nostrils assailed with sweet, delicate perfumes. She moved slowly along the aisle in a blissful daze, oblivious to the bustle of the market and the cacophony of stallholders’ cries. Her eyes were so busy that the rest of her body seemed to lose all awareness and all her earlier self-consciousness and fear of being discovered were forgotten.
Her gaze was caught by a type of fruit she did not recognise. The woody-looking apples with rosy cheeks and a small coronet seemed plain enough on the outside but one had been cut in half to reveal inside a mass of juicy crimson seeds threaded with strands of bright yellow flesh.
‘Them’s pomegranates, miss. From Persia. Have a taste,’ the stallholder said, offering her a handful of red seeds. ‘Just a shilling each to you, dearie. How many would you like?’ Anna backed away, shaking her head, but he continued talking. ‘Or what about a guava? Now there’s a cunning fruit – looks like a lumpy green apple but tastes like heaven. Or a grape, perhaps? Delicious little morsel. And not just good for making wine.’ He pulled a couple of pale green fruit from the bunch and popped one into his mouth, holding a small bunch out to Anna.
‘Our cook says all fruit should be stewed or baked to prevent sickness.’
‘Then your cook’s behind the times, miss, if you’ll forgive me for saying. These fruits would be ruined by cooking, as all fashionable folk know. Now, what everyone’s talking about are these,’ he said, brandishing a bristly-looking thing which appeared to Anna more like a cudgel than a fruit. ‘Pineapple. Once tasted, never forgotten.’
‘How much is it?’ Anna asked, thinking she might buy a present for her uncle and aunt.
‘Five shillings, miss, and cheap at the price, given that it makes a tasty snack for a right crowd of folks. This little beauty has travelled all the way from the shores of Africa.’ How ridiculous, Anna thought as she hurried onwards, a fruit that costs the same as half a pig, or the weekly wage of a maid.
She came upon a small stall that she had not noticed the previous time. It was a display of wild flowers so artfully arranged that she was instantly transported back to the country fields she knew so well. There were the tall yellow bracts of fennel with their delicate hair-like leaf fronds, sprays of goldenrod in a sharper yellow, the pink of the open-faced mallow and the modest heads of harebell in deeper purple. The desiccated stems of teasel, with their prickly seed heads, were entwined with columbine, elegantly coiling upwards to their showy white flowers.
Even more than the stunning variety of colours, both vibrant and subtle, what excited her artist’s imagination was the dizzying variety of forms: of stems, leaves, blooms and seed heads. She found her fingers twitching to commit this beauty to paper.
Tucked in a corner was a large bunch of one of her favourites, Solomon’s seal, surprising at this late stage of summer. She loved it not only for its graceful, arching stems and tiny white bell flowers, but because of the biblical story attached to it. Indeed, her own mother would brew tea from the dried leaves as a healing drink whenever any of the family had suffered stomach problems, or as a poultice for bumps and bruises.
As her eyes wandered over the display she was able to imagine, for a moment, that she had actually walked from the fields onto the sandy margins of the North Sea. Here was the sturdy sea lavender that forms a purple carpet over the marshes every July, the bold upright stems of yellow tree lupin, the prickly sea holly with its delicately veined blue-grey leaves and thistly flowers, the white willow herb, its seed heads curling open into downy arcs, and large bunches of the tough wiry heather that carpets the heathland around the village in such a dramatic display of purple and pink that visitors will walk from miles around to see it.
A harsh voice close by startled Anna from her reverie. ‘You going to buy anything, missy? Two bunches of lavender for a penny.’
Anna looked up into the eyes of a burly, ruddy-faced woman behind the stall. ‘Sorry. I was just looking.’
‘Lookin’ don’t make me a livin’, miss, if you get me drift? Just gets in the way of me other customers.’
Anna muttered a further apology and went to take a step but her feet stumbled and she almost fell, just managing to save herself by putting a hand out to grab the side of the stall. She yelped as her skin brushed painfully against the heads of prickly thistles.
‘Whoops,’ the stallholder cried, pulling her upright with a powerful hand. ‘Nearly had us over then, you did. Are you feeling a bit faint, miss? You’ve gone a funny colour. Terrible hot today, ain’t it?’
She led Anna to the side of the stall and pulled out a rough wooden stool.
‘Sit down and gather your senses for a moment. I’ll get you a cup of water.’
Anna sat, gratefully sipping the tepid water, still light-headed yet feeling strangely elated by her discovery. Here, laid before her on a table, was everything she desired for her palette. If only she could paint it, right here and now.
‘You feeling better, miss?’ The tone was kinder now, less impatient.
‘I am, thank you very much,’ she said. ‘But I wondered . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered if I could stay a while and try to sketch your beautiful display.’
‘Sketch?’ She looked askance. ‘You some kind of artist? You ain’t going to put me in it, is you, like that naughty Hogarth fellow?’
‘Oh no, I just love to draw and paint flowers,’ Anna hurried to reassure her. ‘It wouldn’t take many minutes.’
‘So long as you keep out of me way, you can take all the time you like, dearie. Might be a nice little lure for me customers,’ she muttered as an aside.
As Anna began to draw her hands and fingers seemed to move almost automatically, linked to the perception of her eyes by unseen threads that bypassed conscious thought. The flowers quickly began to take shape on the page – the arcs of stems, the serration of leaves and shades of light filtering through translucent petals – and relief spread through her neck and shoulders like a balm. The world around her receded into a dim, barely perceptible background.
She had filled a whole page with sketches and was trying to capture the way that the convolvulus twined through the sturdier stems of the teasel when an extraordinary idea began to take shape. It was a pattern of intertwined stems and flowers such as she had once seen in a hedgerow not far from home, a network of forms that seemed to reflect the wonderful beauty and unity of the natural world.
Ten minutes later, a heavy hand on her shoulder made her nearly jump out of her skin.
‘Sorry to disturb, miss, but I have to nip off for a mo. Call of nature, you understand. Would you mind me stall for a few moments?’ The woman pushed past, and was gone.
The interruption broke Anna’s concentration, bringing her back to the world around her. She looked up with alarm, realising that she had absolutely no idea how long she had been sitting here. She’d heard no peals of midday church bells, but then she had heard nothing of the sounds of the market either, so absorbed had she been in her sketching. Was it lunchtime already, perhaps? Was the fami
ly sitting at the table, looking accusingly at the empty chair?
The woman seemed to be gone for an age. How could it possibly take so long? She put away her sketchbook, moved the seat behind the stall and sat with her head bent low, praying that no customer would stop. She had no idea what to do or say. After what felt like half an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, she began to pace, anxiously peering through the crowds for a glimpse of the stallholder returning.
Finally, she could stand the anxiety no longer. Ripping the page out of her sketchbook, she scrawled on the back: Sorry to leave. Please take this in gratitude for letting me sit by your stall. Then she laid it on the display and hurried to the next stallholder along. ‘The lady there asked me to keep an eye for her but now I have to go. Would you mind?’
She almost ran through the market, down the steps and back along the streets, only remembering just in time to slow to a more graceful pace and gather her breath before she reached Spital Square.
She entered the front door without being noticed and stepped into the profound darkness of the hallway, felt her way to the bottom of the stairs and tiptoed upwards, trying to avoid the slightest sound on the treads. Still half blinded from the bright sunlight, she tripped on the top step and nearly fell. She caught herself with the banister and paused, with heart in mouth, fearing that she had been heard. But there was no sound and she had already reached the foot of the third set of stairs, the ones leading up to her attic, when she heard her aunt calling from the main bedroom, ‘Is that you, Anna dearest? Luncheon will be served in fifteen minutes.’
‘Yes, it is me,’ she said, holding her breath. ‘I will join you very shortly, Aunt.’
Hurriedly, she removed her bonnet, changed out of her ‘maid’s disguise’ and into her best dress, retied her hair into its bun and fixed a crisply starched lace pinner onto her head. She gave her face and hands a quick rinse from the fresh jug of water Betty had kindly replaced since the morning, and slipped downstairs to join the family in the dining room.
