by Liz Trenow
Lizzie whispered, ‘Is he in terrible trouble, do you think?’
‘I am sure it is just a mistake,’ Anna whispered back, trying to sound more confident than she felt. ‘Your father is well respected. Nothing will happen.’
‘But if he has broken the law, will he go to prison? William too? Whatever will become of us?’ A tear fell onto Lizzie’s flushed cheek.
‘Hush, little one,’ Anna said, putting an arm around her. ‘As with all things, this will pass.’ She remembered her father using these same words, attempting to comfort her when her mother was critically ill. Her mother died shortly afterwards. Things did indeed pass, but that did not stop you mourning them.
She slept fitfully that night. In just a few moments of overheard conversation the world seemed to have altered irrevocably. She had been growing accustomed to the family and the city, and was feeling more secure – even if overly constrained – and looking forward to September when there would be more social diversions as people returned from their country retreats. But the future that had felt so solid had now become shifting, like standing on a riverbank when the ground which had felt unyielding underfoot might suddenly give way and leave you calf-deep in treacherous mud.
Next morning at breakfast her uncle announced that Sarah was suffering from a headache and would be staying in her chamber, at least until lunchtime. Betty had taken up a few morsels to tempt her appetite. Joseph and William ate quickly; they were going to a meeting, he said, and would be gone most of the day.
When the two girls were left alone, Anna asked, ‘Did you manage to sleep, dearest Cousin?’
‘A little,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I had a nightmare about Papa going to gaol.’
‘I do not think that at all likely, dearest. Besides, do you not imagine that your father and William are even now on their way to sort out the matter?’
Anna could not decide how to respond to the French boy’s letter. Her mind vacillated wildly. One minute she felt it better to ignore the request, to avoid becoming involved in something of which her aunt would certainly disapprove; the next she was determined to find out more, even at the risk of incurring her aunt’s wrath.
What remained unchanging was the feeling of overwhelming curiosity about this ordinary French journeyman whose face and physical presence seemed so improbably familiar to her. It was impossible to resist. Returning to her room after breakfast, she tore a sheet of paper from her sketchbook and wrote:
Dear M. Vendôme,
Thank you for your letter. I will be at Christ Church on Sunday and may be able to speak with you afterwards, but only if my aunt is not accompanying me. I hope you will understand.
Yours etc.
Anna Butterfield
She folded the piece of paper and tied it with a piece of ribbon. But how to deliver it? Somehow she had to find an excuse to leave the house. She returned downstairs to Lizzie’s room.
‘Is your tutor coming at ten o’clock as usual?’
‘Worse luck. I am too tired and do not feel a bit like doing my studies.’
‘It will make a good distraction for you, and perhaps this afternoon we could do some painting? I will go with Betty to the market to buy some flowers, shall I? I cannot trust her to get the right kind.’
‘Should you not check with Mama?’
‘Let’s not trouble her as she’s feeling unwell. If she asks, I am reading in my room. Is that clear?’ She fixed her cousin with a strong look, and was rewarded with a nod of agreement.
She ran downstairs to tell Betty about her plan, then up to her room to get changed into what she’d now come to think of as her ‘maid’s disguise’.
When they reached the market, she left Betty with strict instructions to spend a long time making her purchases and then to wait at the pie stall when the clock of Christ Church struck twelve noon. She wasn’t entirely sure where Wood Street was, but remembered the direction in which the boy had gestured that day when they met on the steps of Christ Church, and surely it could not be far.
She hastened to the farthest point of the market, on the corner of Lyon Street and Paternoster Row, and then headed up Church Street, past the huge white bulk of Christ Church towering over the other buildings. The heat seemed even to have silenced the songbirds that usually sang from their cages, but through the open loft windows high above the street she could hear the clack of countless looms – a sound that Lizzie had pointed out on their first day – as the weavers thrust their shuttles back and forth.
Soon she found herself on a wider highway called Brick Lane, a bustling thoroughfare of carts and carriages, street merchants, temporary market stalls, beggars, shopfronts, inns and chophouses. Hawkers were everywhere shouting their wares: ‘Eels, smelts and whiting, fresh today,’ or ‘Hats and caps! I buy, sell or exchange,’ but she was careful, as Lizzie had instructed her, never to meet their eyes.
Picking her way between the traffic and the crowds, she marvelled at how, in just a few short weeks, she had become accustomed to this extraordinary city, the throng of carts and carriages, the press of people, the smells of horses, rotting meat and fish mingling with wood smoke and tobacco. And yet she knew that just a mile away was open country: gardens, fields and woods. If she kept on walking, she might find somewhere like home, coloured in shades of green instead of the drab grey and brown of the city.
She became so wrapped up in her thoughts that she found herself striding along as she would at home but, when she was next able to see through a gap in the streets, the spire of Christ Church appeared further away than she had expected, and rather more to the left than she had remembered.
At last, after asking several people, she found her way to Wood Street. Since arriving in the city she had been intrigued by the numbers boldly displayed on the door of every house. In the village every building had a name that gave a sense of its occupants and its location: Five Bar Cottage, Butcher’s House, High Elms Lodge, Little Barley Farm. Just living at a number seemed so anonymous, so dull.
Today, however, she discovered how necessary they were, when every house looked the same. And here it was, number 37, a tall, narrow house in a terrace of identical brick buildings, each with a basement window peering up to the pavement, three further storeys and the long dormer windows of the weaving loft stretching the full width of its roof.
It looked respectable enough, she observed, although it seemed to lack a woman’s touch: there were no singing birds in the windows, no pots of flowers in the porch; the sills were dusty and the woodwork definitely in need of a lick of new paint.
Glancing quickly around to check that she was not being observed, Anna ascended the few steps and was about to slip her note under the front door when it was opened from the inside by an elderly man, his greying hair tied into a plait under a red velvet cap.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je peux vous aider?’
‘I just wished to deliver this note, sir,’ she stuttered, trying to gather her composure. ‘To Monsieur Vendôme.’
A look of gentle amusement crinkled the corner of the old man’s eyes; a look that made her suspect that he knew exactly who she was and what the letter was about.
‘Do you wish to speak to him in person?’
‘Oh no,’ she said hastily, ‘I do not wish to disturb him on a working day.’
‘Then may I say from whom the letter is come?’
‘I am Anna. Anna Butterfield.’
‘What a pretty name,’ he said. ‘I shall make sure Henri receives it, Mam’selle Butterfield.’
Emboldened by the success of the morning, Anna planned her next move with meticulous care. After lunch she spent nearly four hours helping Lizzie create a reasonable likeness of the arrangement of wild flowers she had purchased in the market. Her pupil had little patience for careful observation and Anna had resorted to drawing much of it before allowing her to apply the watercolour.
When it was finished, they took it to Aunt Sarah – it would help distract her from her troubles, they agreed
.
‘What a marvellous talent you have, dearest daughter,’ Sarah cried, holding the painting at arm’s length to better view it. ‘If you do some more, we shall stage a little showing of your work. And we had better get you a new dress for that, hadn’t we?’ Lizzie clapped her hands with glee.
Aunt Sarah swivelled her feet out of the bed and stood up. ‘I declare that your little painting has so cheered me that I believe I shall be able to rise for supper.’
Later, as Lizzie hugged her with genuine gratitude, Anna knew this was the moment to take the girl into her confidence. She explained about the letter in which the French boy had asked to see her. She could not refuse for fear of appearing rude, she explained, so she had agreed to meet him after church. On condition that Lizzie would be her chaperone this coming Sunday, and agree to keep secret whatever took place there, Anna would continue the drawing and painting lessons until she deserved her new frock.
Lizzie grumbled that it seemed a most unwise course of action, although she had no option but to agree.
That night Anna found it hard to sleep again, her head full of the day’s excitements and imaginings about the French boy’s mysterious words: a matter of importance.
She had finally dropped off when she was woken by sudden, harsh shouts from the street outside, a sharp, shocking crash and the ominous clatter of breaking glass. She heard her aunt’s terrified scream from the bedroom below, followed by a bellow of rage from her uncle, and then William’s voice, a panicky commotion of shouts and the thunder of footsteps on the stairs.
Peering into the darkness, she caught a glimpse of shadowy figures disappearing around the corner of the square. With shaking hands, she lit her candle, pulled on a shawl and descended the wooden stairs. Aunt Sarah and Lizzie were huddled on the landing, Lizzie pale-faced and trembling, her mother restless with anxiety, occasionally leaning over the banister to shout instructions: ‘Call the night watchman!’, ‘Have a care, Husband, they may be violent,’ and, ‘For Lord’s sake, do not go out into the street.’ Raking her cheeks with her fingers, she wailed, ‘Dear God, whatever will become of us?’
They descended to the drawing room and lit as many candles as they could find to dispel the shadows which now hung full of menace, and waited in tense silence, listening for sounds of activity on the ground floor below.
Eventually they heard the chirpy voice of the night watchman at the front door, her uncle’s deep tones and then a clear, ‘Not to worry, sir. We’ll soon apprehend the scoundrels. Now, please go inside and lock all your doors and windows. I will return just as soon as we have any news.’
As Joseph entered the drawing room he seemed to be tucking something into his pocket. ‘Nothing to worry about, my dears. Thank heavens all our windows are shuttered, so it is only the fanlight above the front door that has been broken. William is putting up a board to make it secure.’
‘Is this about the French silk, Papa?’
Anna’s aunt and uncle exchanged glances.
‘I don’t know to what you are referring, Daughter, but if it is something you have overheard, it is all wicked lies,’ Joseph blustered. ‘This is just stupid vandalism, so do not let me hear you repeating anything about this ever again, do you understand?’
Anna had always been a little afraid of him, his overbearing presence and intimidatingly loud voice, but now, for the first time, she could see that he was vulnerable. What would the consequences be for his business? And for those around him – his family, and herself?
Joseph took a deep breath and set his shoulders, regaining his composure. ‘Now there is nothing more to be concerned about, my dear ones, so I think you should return to bed for your precious beauty sleep. William and I will wait for the night watch to return.’
Next morning, after a scanty sleep, Anna woke early and was first to breakfast. Betty had laid eggs and bread on the table, and returned to the kitchen to collect the cheese and cold meats. As Anna went to take her place, her eye was caught by something tucked behind one of the candlesticks on the mantel. It was a scrap of dirty paper, once crumpled but now smoothed flat and folded in two. Cautiously she moved closer, ready to turn away should anyone enter the room. She reached for the paper and unfolded it. The words, in large capital letters, were ominous and terrifying: THIS IS FOR SELLING ILLEGAL FRENCH SILK, SADLER. CEASE NOW OR YOUR HOUSE WILL BE TORCHED.
10
You cannot be too wary in the choice of him you would call your friend; nor suffer your affections to be so far engag’d, as to be wholly at his devotion. ’Tis dangerous trusting one’s happiness in another person’s keeping; or to be without a power to refuse, what may be your ruin to grant.
– Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
The heatwave broke, heavy grey-purple clouds rolling in from the west and blotting out the merciless rays of the sun for the first time in weeks. Soon enough, Henri could hear the rumbles of thunder, first in the distance and then drawing closer and closer until they seemed to be directly overhead. Then the rain started, drumming so loudly on the slates immediately above their heads that he and Benjamin had to shout over the noise.
The sky darkened like dusk, making it difficult to see the fine threads of silk. The drawboy shrieked in terror with each flare of lightning and was unable to concentrate on maintaining the proper sequence of lashes. It soon became clear that no weaving could continue until the storm had passed.
They took the boy down to the basement kitchen where the noise of the storm was more distant and, while the cook sat him at the table and warmed a cup of milk to calm his nerves, Henri took the opportunity of slipping next door into his room. There, he took out Anna’s letter once more from its hiding place, carefully concealed with her sketch beneath his mattress.
When M. Lavalle had asked whether the letter contained the permission he sought, Henri had to admit that it was not yet agreed.
‘I hope to meet her at Christ Church after the service on Sunday,’ he said, cursing the red flush rising up his neck onto his cheeks.
‘I see,’ the old man said, with a knowing smile. ‘She certainly appears to be a charming young lady, and her artistic skills are remarkable.’ His face settled into a more serious expression. ‘I trust you will approach this meeting in an entirely professional manner, Henri? She may dress like a maid, but from her accent and her bearing you must understand that she is not one of us.’
‘It is a business proposition, nothing more, I can assure you,’ Henri said, trying to believe himself. He was usually so self-assured with girls, so confident of his own good looks. He would often scheme for days to gain a girl’s attention and bask in his success when it was finally given, but was usually disappointed to discover that once the game had been won the prize tended to lose its glister.
This time it was more complicated. He could not determine which made his heart race most: the prospect of seeing the girl again, of being close and hearing her voice, or the thought of getting her permission to use the drawing for his master piece.
The worst of the storm seemed to have passed when they heard Cook shouting, ‘Henri, your master is calling for you.’ He reached the top of the basement stairs to discover that M. Lavalle had opened the front door to a bedraggled figure. ‘Come in, come in out of the rain, Guy. Whatever possessed you to venture out in this storm? You look like a drowned rat. Henri, where are you?’ the old man shouted. ‘Oh, there you are. Take the lad downstairs and get him dry, for heaven’s sake.’
His friend’s face, always pale, was now almost grey, the sockets around his eyes bruised purple, as though he had not slept for days.
‘Whatever is the matter, are you unwell?’ Henri said, leading him down to the kitchen. ‘Here, take off your shirt and dry yourself. Cook, can he have some milk, please?’ He handed over an old towel while the cook scowled disapprovingly at this further intrusion into her kitchen. With a martyred sigh, she poured the milk and handed the cup
to Guy as he sat, shivering, at the table.
‘Well?’ Henri asked.
‘I cannot talk here,’ he whispered. ‘May we go somewhere private?’
Henri slipped upstairs to ask M. Lavalle’s permission to use the parlour.
‘You may have a quarter hour, no longer,’ his master said. ‘Please tell your friend that in future he should call only out of working hours.’
‘I understand, sir, and I am sorry, but I think this is urgent,’ he said.
The old man nodded. ‘Very well. Tell those other two lads that the storm has passed and they must return to work.’
‘Bon Dieu, you look terrible. Whatever is it now?’
‘I’m in trouble, my friend. I need your help.’ The shirt hung too loosely on his friend’s gaunt frame, but at least some colour was now returning to his cheeks.
‘Last evening I was with my friends at The Dolphin, you know, having a few pints of ale.’
‘Go on.’ The story was becoming depressingly familiar.
‘They got talking about the Soie de Lyon list; how impatient they were that nothing seems to have been done against these mercers who are doing us out of our living. I tried to remind them that Monsieur Lavalle was looking into it, like he said, raising it through the proper channels. But with each round they got more and more agitated, saying they were sick of waiting for the bloody Company to act while they starved for lack of work, and wanted to show the bastards that they meant business.
‘I suggested we should write to each of the mercers on the list, not threatening, but just to tell them we know what they’re up to. So someone found some paper and a quill and ink, and started writing letters there and then. They were that drunk by now, and hot for delivering them that very night. Honestly, it was like watching a kettle coming to the boil. You know the lid’s going to fly off at any minute, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’
