by Liz Trenow
Perhaps I should be grateful that anyone is taking an interest in me, she sighed, catching a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Who am I to be so choosy?
By Friday lunchtime, after a further three hours of intensive tuition, she felt a good deal more confident of her dancing steps and was even beginning to look forward to the ball. But first there was the trip to Miss Charlotte to collect the finishing touches for her costume.
Aunt Sarah suggested that Betty be sent, but Anna insisted.
‘It is best that I go in person, for I may need to make some choices, or perhaps wait for adjustments,’ she said. ‘It is only a few streets away and I can perfectly easily find my way there and back again, just as I did last time.’ To her surprise, Aunt Sarah agreed.
She hoped Miss Charlotte might invite her for tea again, with perhaps the pleasant diversion of entertaining conversation. It was almost at the last moment that she realised that this visit offered the perfect opportunity: she would ask Miss Charlotte if she would be kind enough to deliver her new painting to Henri.
As she approached the shop in Draper’s Lane Anna could see that Charlotte had customers. She stalled, crossing the road to the other side where she could wait less conspicuously.
Through the bow window she could see a woman holding the hand of a small pale-faced boy wearing the beautiful plum-coloured damask coat she’d seen in the shop several weeks before. Miss Charlotte embraced the young woman briefly and then kneeled so that her face was level with the boy’s, put her hands to his cheeks and kissed him on the forehead. It was a scene of charming but unexpected intimacy.
Shortly afterwards the door opened and the pair emerged. Miss Charlotte lingered on the step, waving goodbye. After ten yards or so, the boy turned his head, lifting his hand in a reciprocal gesture. Then something unexpected happened: pulling away from the woman’s grip, and oblivious to her calls, he began to run at some pace back to the shop. He held out his arms and Charlotte, who had now descended the steps, crouched and opened hers so that he fell straight into her embrace.
The other woman returned to his side and tried to prise him away, but he clung to Miss Charlotte like a limpet, nuzzling his face into her neck as she appeared to whisper words of comfort. After several long moments she stood up, forcing him to release his hold, and the young woman took his hand once more. Reluctantly, he was led away and this time Miss Charlotte went immediately inside and closed the door.
It was such a touching scene that Anna lingered several minutes further before crossing the road to knock at the door of the shop. She was glad she had done so because the seamstress took some time to answer and, when she did, her eyes were reddened and her cheeks raw-looking. She recovered herself immediately: ‘Oh, it’s you, Anna,’ she said, resuming her usual welcoming smile. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
‘I have come for some ribbons and lappets for the ball I am attending on Saturday.’
‘Come in, come in.’
‘I could not help seeing you saying goodbye to that little boy. He looked so charming in that beautiful damask coat you made for him.’
Miss Charlotte flushed. ‘He is my nephew. The coat was for his seventh birthday.’
‘He seems much attached to you,’ Anna said.
‘Indeed . . .’ Her words tailed off and the smile faded. ‘Now, about those lappets you wanted . . .’
When they had completed their business and were taking tea, Anna took out the parcel and explained her request.
‘I am quite happy to deliver it for you,’ Miss Charlotte said. ‘But why do you not take it to him yourself? Unless my memory deceives me, when you were here last week Henri invited you to visit so that you might better understand how the design would work on the loom.’
‘Indeed, that would be my dearest wish,’ Anna said. ‘But I have not told my aunt and uncle about the design and I feel sure they would consider it unseemly for me to visit the home of a French weaver.’
Miss Charlotte nodded sympathetically. ‘I can certainly deliver it for you on Tuesday afternoon when it is early closing, if that is soon enough?’
‘That will be perfect,’ Anna said.
It was arranged that Anna would take a carriage to the Hinchliffes’ after lunch on Saturday and would dress there, along with Susannah, and assisted by their maid.
In the carriage Anna was assailed by a fit of nerves, wishing herself far away and not having to face the trial of her social and dancing skills among eminent and wealthy strangers. But Mrs Hinchliffe – ‘you must call me Augusta, my dear’ – welcomed her like a long-lost daughter.
‘We are just so delighted that you are able to join us,’ she warbled. ‘I am sure we are to enjoy the most delightful evening. Charles tells us that the ball attracts most interesting and distinguished guests.’
‘Dearest Anna, I am almost beside myself with excitement,’ Susannah whispered. ‘I can barely keep still. What colour is your dress?’
‘It is a pale yellow damask robe à la française, so the costumière called it. It has a sackback, which makes me feel most elegant.’
‘How wonderfully à la mode. I cannot wait to see it,’ Susannah said. ‘Mine is eggshell blue, and I have the prettiest dancing shoes you can ever imagine.’
‘I am sure you will be the belles of the ball,’ said Mrs Hinchliffe. ‘It will be our delight to escort you both.’
After tea, they both retired to Susannah’s chamber, where her maid – her own personal maid, what an indulgence, Anna thought to herself – was deputed to help them dress. Anna hoped this might be a moment to engage Susannah in conversation; to see what they might have in common. After all, she was the only young woman of her own age to whom she had yet been introduced.
‘What do you like to read, Susannah?’ she asked, between gasps as the maid tugged at her stays, trying to force her waistline into the same impossibly tiny circumference as her young mistress’s.
‘This and that,’ Susannah replied, distracted by a lace cuff which would not sit correctly. ‘These have not been starched properly, Hannah.’
‘Beg pardon, miss. I will look out another pair.’
‘Be quick about it, then. What were you saying, Anna?’
‘I wondered if you like to read novels, you know, romances like Pamela, or Clarissa. Or what about Jonathan Swift – I love his satires.’
Susannah regarded her blankly. Anna tried again.
‘Or perhaps you like poetry? Thomas Gray? I do so love his “Elegy in a Country Churchyard”.’
‘How does it go?’ Susannah regarded herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that.
Anna thought for a moment, then began: ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, the ploughman homeward plods his weary way and leaves the world to darkness and to me.’
‘Sounds too gloomy for me.’ Susannah held out her arms so that Hannah could fit the new cuffs then stepped forward to the dresser, causing her maid to run with her, and picked up a slim volume. ‘Mama gave me this,’ she said.
On the front was an illustration of two beautiful young women. Each part of their anatomy, the height of their hair, the size of their eyes, the extent of their décolletages and the slimness of their waistlines seemed overly exaggerated, unlike any girl Anna had ever encountered. ‘The Lady’s Book of Manners,’ she said, turning to an inside page and reading out loud.
‘No lady should drink wine at dinner. Even if her head is strong enough to bear it, she will find her cheeks, soon after the indulgence, flushed, hot, and uncomfortable. Alas, I surely have no manners. My uncle serves claret each evening, and I drink it!’
She read again: ‘No young lady should go to a ball, without the protection of a married lady, or an elderly gentleman.’
Susannah laughed. ‘Thank heavens we have Mother and Father with us tonight. She’s married and he’s elderly.’
For a while their conversation was lively enough but it soon dwindled, and Anna found he
rself struggling to find topics of mutual interest with which to fill the time. At last they were called. The carriage was waiting.
Arriving at the Inns of Court, their cloaks were taken by a red- and gold-liveried footman, who ushered them into the grandest anteroom Anna had ever seen, with bright Persian carpets, deep-buttoned leather benches along both sides and, at either end, walls covered with portraits of pompous-looking men. Charles was there to greet them.
‘Miss Butterfield, it is my greatest pleasure that you are able to join us.’ He bowed and took her hand to his lips, whispering, ‘You are looking very fine this evening.’
She blushed, in spite of herself. She had to admit he made an impressive figure, a full head taller than her and bewigged, splendidly attired in a brilliant silk brocade coat cut away in the latest fashion with white lace ruffles at neck and wrists. Perhaps it was the mirrored hall, or the light of so many candelabra, but she thought him a great deal more handsome than she remembered.
Accepting his offer of a glass of claret, she drank it down eagerly, hoping the alcohol would soothe her nerves. To blazes with The Lady’s Book of Manners, she said to herself. They chatted for a while, although their conversation was constantly interrupted by men greeting Charles in loud, booming voices, slapping him on the back and calling him ‘my boy’. He introduced her to each one, but after the initial politenesses, she was mostly ignored.
It was with some relief that she heard the orchestra tuning up, and Charles invited her to dance. The ballroom seemed to Anna at least the size of their village cricket pitch, and the ceiling the height of a church, supported by marble columns and lit by a dozen glittering chandeliers.
Before she had a moment to think, they were already taking their places and it became obvious that the very first dance was indeed a minuet. Happily, four other couples took the central floor before them, all apparently fluent in the art of the dance, allowing her time to revise the movements before it was their turn.
She remembered to keep her feet turned out, not to look down at them and, most of the time, at which moments to dance on her toes or dip her knees. When it came to the all-important diagonal pass across the centre of the floor, the climax of the dance, Charles held out his arm well in advance to indicate that this was the moment when their wrists were to touch at the turn.
As they finished, she curtseyed as elegantly as she knew how, he bowed and, as he offered his arm to lead her from the floor, the other dancers and observers clapped appreciatively. ‘A triumph, Miss Butterfield,’ he whispered. ‘You are a most accomplished dancer.’
The rest of the evening flew by as she danced twice again with Charles, once with Mr Ehret and once with Mr Hinchliffe. Susannah waved gaily each time they passed on the floor, apparently with a new partner each time. At last, as her feet were starting to ache, she heard the announcement of the final minuet, and it was Charles who claimed her.
Before she knew it, they were all in a carriage on their way home, Susannah chattering gaily with her mother about all the marvellously handsome young men she had danced with, and Mr Hinchliffe and Charles exchanging information about the important people they had observed, or conversed with, during the evening, and the business connections they had made.
It seemed the men were far more concerned about meeting potential customers of high social standing and plentiful means than they were with enjoying themselves, and their talk left Anna feeling a little deflated. She knew that such events were, in essence, marriage markets, but she had not realised how much they could also be commercial marketplaces.
As she prepared to leave the following morning after breakfast, Charles pulled her to one side and whispered, ‘I have so enjoyed your company, Anna. May I be so bold as to invite myself to Spital Square again next week?’
On Tuesday morning Anna recalled that Miss Charlotte had promised to deliver her new sketch to Henri that afternoon. She tried to imagine herself into the scene but failed: she had no idea what the interior of the house or the weaving loft would be like. What would he think of the new painting? she wondered. Would he be able to incorporate her new naturalistic elements into the woven design? How would he translate her many shades of colour into silk? She so longed to be there herself, to take part in their discussions, to observe his reactions and, she had to admit it, to hear his voice and see his smile.
As the morning drew on, she became more and more downcast. It wasn’t fair that Miss Charlotte could be free to visit whom she wanted and when she wanted, while she, Anna, was unable to. It is like being imprisoned, she thought to herself, within invisible walls of social propriety.
She gazed out of her window across the rooftops, recalling the freedoms of her former life. She imagined herself running, with little Jane, across the beach and splashing in the surf at the edge of the sea, and found herself close to tears.
‘I want to go home,’ she said to the pigeons.
Joseph and William were missing at lunchtime, and Aunt Sarah announced that she, Anna and Lizzie had received an invitation to take tea with some friends in Hackney. ‘It is a fair drive, but it will do you good to get out,’ she said to Anna. ‘You are looking a little peaky, my dear.’
The idea came to her then, as sudden and surprising as a thunderclap. ‘I am so sorry, dear Aunt,’ she said, touching her temple. ‘I do have a terrible headache. Do you mind if I do not accompany you on this occasion? I think it would be better if I rested.’
14
When by accident or choice you venture into the insinuating company of women, consider them all as Syrens, that have fascination in their eyes, musick on their tongues, and mischief in their hearts. If your inclinations render their society necessary to your happiness, let your prudence chuse for you, not your appetite!
– Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
The clatter of looms in the weaving loft usually drowned out any noise from the street, but by coincidence and good fortune both Henri and Benjamin had stopped their shuttles at the same moment.
In that single second of silence could be heard the ringing of the small iron bell suspended beside the front door of the house, three storeys below. Henri put down the handle of his harness, went to the window and peered over the parapet. With one hand grasping the metal gantry, he eased his shoulders further out of the window. Now he could see the tops of the heads of two women, standing side by side on the front step.
He called down: ‘Monsieur Lavalle n’est pas à la maison cet après-midi. Puis-je vous aider, mesdames?’
Two faces tipped upwards, pale moons in their white bonnets. In that astonished moment of recognition, Henri nearly lost hold of the gantry. ‘Mam’selle Anna! Et Charlotte! Est-ce vraiment vous?’
Miss Charlotte shouted upwards: ‘Indeed, it is us. We have been ringing and knocking this past five minutes. We were about to give up.’
He leaned out even further for a better view, almost dangling from the scaffold normally used for lifting warp beams and boxes of heavy pirns.
Anna laughed. ‘Take care, Henri, or you will fly down.’
In that moment he did indeed feel powerful enough to fly, his body feather-light and flooded with joy. The girl who had been invading his dreams for the past few weeks was here, on his doorstep. And she had called him Henri.
‘Wait, please,’ he shouted. ‘I will come down.’
Only as he descended the loft ladder and the two sets of stairs did it occur to him to wonder why no one else had answered the door. M. Lavalle was out, that he knew, but where was Mariette, and Cook? It was only a fleeting thought. What did he care, when Anna was here?
As he welcomed them both into the parlour he realised the purpose of their visit. Under her arm Anna held a long cylindrical package; it must be the new sketch she had promised. After a flurry of greetings they all fell silent, listening to the ticking of M. Lavalle’s grandfather clock.
‘Oh, forgive me. Please take a seat,’
he finally remembered to say.
The two young women sat side by side on the hard settle. He offered them drinks, which they declined. He took M. Lavalle’s chair and smiled, waiting for one of them to say something. He could not help looking into Anna’s eyes, into that breathtakingly direct gaze that seemed to swallow up the rest of the world. For a few awkward moments, she seemed entirely to have forgotten the object of her mission.
‘Haven’t you got something to show Henri?’ Charlotte prompted, nudging her.
Anna started, as if from a dream. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, flustered. ‘Here is my new painting. I have added watercolour and more shading. I hope you like it.’
He untied the string and outer wrapping then rolled it out onto the table by the window. They stood either side of him as Anna described how her meeting with the botanical artist Mr Ehret had opened her eyes to the need for even more careful shading to achieve the naturalism she sought. ‘I realised that I must return to observing real life, so I purchased some wild flowers to copy. I also had in mind the points rentrées technique Charlotte showed us last week,’ she said. ‘I hope that you think it will be possible to weave?’
‘This is truly delightful,’ Miss Charlotte said. ‘This shading here, for example, it works perfectly. And the colours are just right.’
Henri was spellbound. He had loved the earlier sketch, the one with which he was now so familiar, but this new coloured version was so much more vivid, so much bolder, and yet even more natural. The trellis framework of serpentine stems was still there and the rendition of the plants and flowers was so realistic that he could easily imagine himself lying in the grass among them. The beetle chewing casually at a leaf appeared so lifelike that for a second he could almost see its legs moving.
