The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  ‘I can smell the fresh air of the countryside,’ he said at last, taking in a deep breath. ‘It is wonderful. Thank you.’

  For what seemed like long, long minutes the three of them stood in silence, admiring the painting. They were standing so close that he could almost feel the heat of her, the flush that was flooding her neck and her cheeks. Her hand brushed his for a fraction of a second, and the hot charge of her touch burned through his hand, up his arm and into his face.

  M. Lavalle had once tried to explain Gilbert’s treatise on static electricity and magnetism, and Henri had thought it a strange and confusing concept: how could something unseen be so powerful? But now he understood. As Anna turned her face to his, asking him what he thought of the painting, it was as if they were magnetic poles, and it took all his reserves of self-control to resist the force. The slightest movement of his head would have brought his lips to hers.

  Charlotte was the first to break the spell. ‘When we met before, you spoke of showing us the weaving loft, Henri? Would that be convenient?’

  ‘Oh yes, please,’ Anna cried. ‘If Monsieur Lavalle does not object.’

  ‘He is out for the afternoon. But I am pleased to show you, if you do not mind climbing a ladder?’

  Anna’s face lit up with delight. ‘I used to be the best tree climber in the village. A ladder will be child’s play!’

  In his broken English, Henri did his best to explain the working of the two different looms – the draw loom for figured silks and the plain silk loom on which Benjamin was weaving – and both girls seemed fascinated, firing questions that forced him to think carefully about the answers. Some French terms had no English equivalent – momme, drogue, décreusage – but Benjamin helped with the translation.

  He spoke about the subtle differences in raw silk, depending on whether it was grown in Italy, India or the Far East, and watched her eyes widen in wonder. For him the idea that silk should travel from far across the world was commonplace, but he could see that to anyone less accustomed, those countries would seem so distant, so exotic. It made him feel worldly, stronger and taller, having this knowledge.

  ‘The silk comes in skeins, so first of all it goes to a throwster, who twists it into singles, and then into two or three threads twisted together to make tram, which is for the weft. For the warp – these threads that go along – we perhaps use organzine, which needs a higher twist to make it stronger.’

  ‘My mother is a throwster,’ he added. ‘She likes the Italian silk best of all.’

  ‘Where does your mother live? Do you live with her?’

  ‘No, but she lives nearby. I see her every week. My master asks me to stay on when I finish my apprenticeship. He likes me to be here, I think.’ He stopped short of adding that M. Lavalle was like a father to him. It sounded immodest, saying it like that.

  They were so engaged in lively conversation and laughter that when the bells of Christ Church chimed four o’clock, no one could believe that a full half hour had passed.

  ‘Is that really the time?’ Anna said. ‘I must hasten home.’

  Climbing down the ladder in full skirts was a more difficult proposition than the ascent. Henri went first and then guided Charlotte as she negotiated the steps backwards. Next it was Anna’s turn. He took her hand to help her down the last few treads. When she safely reached the bottom, he did not let go. Charlotte was already making her way down to the ground floor.

  They were alone on the landing. He looked into her eyes, lifted her fingers and kissed them.

  ‘Anna. I . . .’ His throat tightened; he couldn’t find the words to say what he was burning to tell her.

  ‘I know,’ she said softly, holding his gaze. ‘It is the same for me.’

  His heart was thudding so hard in his chest he felt certain she must be able to hear it. ‘Can we meet again?’

  ‘I do not know,’ she whispered. ‘It is difficult.’

  ‘I understand. But please let us find a way.’

  She nodded. How sweet she smells, he thought in those few seconds; it was the bouquet of the countryside, of herbs and flowers and sunshine. Only by actively resisting, with both mind and muscle, did he prevent himself from pulling her into his arms and immersing himself in that heady fragrance, feeling the warmth of her body against his. He’d experienced desire for many a girl before, but this was different: he had never wanted anything so intensely.

  ‘Charlotte . . . I must go,’ she said eventually.

  As they set off down the next flight of stairs, he heard the quiet click of a latch behind him. It was the door to Mariette’s room.

  ‘Why did you not come to say hello?’ Henri asked her later, when he found her sitting at the kitchen table. ‘It was Miss Charlotte and her friend Miss Anna. You must have heard us? They asked to see the looms.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ she muttered. ‘You seemed to be having such a jolly time I did not want to interrupt you.’

  He sensed her displeasure but could not imagine what might be wrong. Did she disapprove of him neglecting his work when M. Lavalle was absent? Or was it something that had happened while she was out visiting? He found it hard to care, so elated was he from the visit and his last whispered exchange with Anna. Whatever was irritating Mariette was her problem, he decided.

  M. Lavalle returned grim-faced from his meeting.

  ‘The government does not seem minded to pass the bill to raise taxes on imported fabrics,’ he said over supper. ‘They fear other countries will follow suit and this will hit our exports. They may lower the import duty on raw silk and ban imports of silk ribbons, stockings and gloves, but I fear these measures will make little difference to most of us.’

  ‘What can be done?’ Henri asked. ‘You said yourself that many will starve if this bill is not passed.’

  ‘I’m afraid they do not care much for the plight of the weavers. It is the general prosperity of the country they are more concerned with.’

  ‘And padding their fat arses,’ Benjamin added, earning himself a fierce look. M. Lavalle did not tolerate bad language in front of Mariette.

  Henri’s mood was so buoyed by the events of the afternoon that he found it hard to be gloomy. ‘We have the Book of Prices, at least. The masters will have to pay a fair wage.’

  ‘But it is not accepted by all, and when there is only work for a few, what happens to the rest? Some masters may feel they have no choice but to pay lower rates just so they can keep their business afloat, and who can really blame them? The journeymen are threatening violence against those who will not sign, and the government is talking about settling troops in the area to protect citizens.’

  Henri shivered. It sounded too much like the tales his mother told of the dragonnades.

  Later, Henri took out Anna’s painting and rolled it out flat along the table at the window to catch the dying rays of dusk. As he studied the detail, admiring once more the delicacy of the colour she had added and the remarkable naturalism of her line, he felt close to her once again, almost as though she were looking over his shoulder. He set out his paints and a tiny brush, and began translating the design into dots of colour on the squared point paper which would guide the set-up of the loom. As he worked, he found himself humming with the sheer pleasure of the task.

  When the light faded he knew that his colour accuracy was being compromised and he would have to stop for the night. He rolled up the paper and held it to his cheek as if to conjure the touch of her skin against his, feeling once again the intensity of longing that he had experienced in her presence.

  He lit a candle and took out a slip of paper. This time he did not care whether his spelling and grammar were correct.

  Dear Anna, he wrote.

  My purpos is to thank you from the bottom of my Heart for your new peinture. It is very beautiful & natural, more even than the 1st one. This evening I start work on the design for the loom & hope to weave soon. As it is a slow time M. Lavalle allows me to set up the loom for it so God Speed I am
abel to finish my Master piece by the end of next month. The Committee meet in January, that is my gaol.

  It is not easy to make the weave of all those beautiful curves but as I work I think of you, Anna. I hope we can meet again soon.

  With best wishes,

  Henri

  At the very moment of signing his name, he regretted it. Should the letter fall into unintended hands, might it lead to difficulties with her family? It is difficult, she had whispered and he knew all too well why. Such a powerful emotion surely cannot be denied, he thought to himself, and she feels the same. She said so. We will find a way. But for the moment, perhaps it was best to be discreet. He rewrote the letter, signing himself simply with an H, which felt even more intimate and exciting.

  Although it was not yet cold enough for the fire to be lit, M. Lavalle was settled, as usual of an evening, into his favourite upholstered wing chair by the empty fireplace, comfortable in his informal indoor garb: the dark green dressing gown of soft serge, his ruby velvet hat and embroidered slippers.

  ‘Have you a few moments? I have something to show you,’ Henri said. If his master approved of the new design, he needed to put forward the all-important request: the use of the draw loom and the services of the drawboy for three weeks, so that he could set up and weave the requisite five yards of his master piece.

  ‘Later, later,’ he said. ‘Close the door and join me, lad. We have something to discuss.’ The old man filled his clay pipe with a pinch of tobacco, and lit it. He sucked in and then breathed out a sigh of aromatic smoke.

  ‘We have never talked of your future, have we?’

  ‘I have been working on the design for my master piece and hope one day to become a master myself,’ Henri said. ‘You know that I have always had the highest regard for you, sir.’

  ‘And I you. Very much so. In fact, I have for some time regarded you as the son we never had.’

  ‘You have been the very best kind of father to me.’

  ‘But the implication is complicated . . .’ M. Lavalle paused, as if trying to find the right words. And then, after a few moments, they seemed to come out in a rush: ‘I am getting old and tired, Henri. But I have no one to take on my business, except you.’

  ‘Me? But sir, I could not afford to buy your business.’

  ‘I do not mean to sell it to you, boy. I would like you to inherit it. As a son would.’

  A pulse throbbed in Henri’s temple. This was such an unexpected twist that he could barely comprehend it. He had imagined perhaps raising enough money to rent a small room and a loom, as Guy had done, in Bethnal Green where rents were cheaper, and working up slowly, maybe eventually being able to buy a house in Spitalfields with a weaving loft, and take on his own apprentices. But now he was being offered the chance to inherit an established and well-respected silk weaving business. It was beyond his wildest dreams.

  ‘I hardly know how to respond,’ he gasped.

  ‘But, as I said, there are complications.’

  ‘Of course. You must consider everything very carefully. The legal issues and so on.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. Those are mere administrative details, and easy to solve. My main concern is Mariette.’

  Henri frowned. How could she be a problem? ‘You have no need to be concerned about Mariette, sir. She is very dear to me, like a sister. Of course, this would always be her home, until she marries. I would take the greatest possible care of her.’

  ‘She is my true heir,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘How can I leave the business to you whilst ensuring that she receives her rightful inheritance?’

  The reality of the dilemma was beginning to dawn on Henri. Women worked as throwsters, like his mother, and he had heard of one or two who did plain weaving. But he had never heard of a woman silk master. In any case, Mariette would not expect to be a working woman; she deserved – and he knew that her father intended her to have – better things, like marriage, and a life of comfort and leisure.

  ‘Before long she will be of an age to marry, will she not? And such a beautiful young woman will surely have her choice of suitors?’

  ‘And now we come to the nub of it, my boy, the true nub of it.’ M. Lavalle looked down at his pipe and spent some moments carefully refilling it. He seemed to be tongue-tied by this nub, whatever it was.

  ‘Please go on, sir. I am in suspense.’

  ‘Mariette tells me that two young women came to the house yesterday?’

  This was the last thing Henri expected. What did their visit have to do with it?

  ‘It was the costumière Miss Charlotte, who came with another young lady, the one who did the sketch that I purchased as the design for my master piece,’ he said. ‘She has revised and given colour to it. I have it here, sir; would you like to see? Actually, I wanted to ask you—’

  ‘And the name of this young lady?’

  ‘Miss Anna Butterfield.’

  ‘Ah. I met her once, when she came to the door with a note. And from where does Miss Butterfield hail?’

  There was no escape. ‘She is the niece of the mercer Sadler,’ Henri admitted. ‘I know what you think of the man, but this young woman is most talented and charming. There is no harm to her at all.’

  ‘Sadler, eh?’ The old man lit his pipe and puffed on it slowly. ‘That thieving bastard. Well, the point is . . .’ He paused again. ‘Mariette seems to think there is something between you and this girl.’

  Henri felt cornered. There was little point in trying to conceal the truth now. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, to be perfectly honest with you, sir, I think there might be. Although heaven knows what future there would be in it, for we are of such different worlds . . .’

  ‘It is this affection that concerns Mariette,’ M. Lavalle said, puffing on his pipe.

  ‘I am aware that she may have observed a brief encounter between myself and Miss Butterfield,’ Henri admitted. ‘But I can reassure you that absolutely nothing improper took place. I cannot see why Mariette should be concerned for me?’

  ‘Are you blind, boy?’ M. Lavalle almost shouted. ‘You are so clever in all other respects and yet it seems entirely to have escaped your notice that my daughter is in love with you.’

  Henri’s jaw slackened with astonishment. ‘But she is yet a child, sir.’

  ‘She is fifteen, the age when many a girl is betrothed,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘I have sensed her growing regard for you but held my counsel, thinking that the affection might become mutual, naturally, in its own time. It was only yesterday evening that she admitted it to me.’

  Henri’s head was spinning. Mariette, in love with him?

  ‘I will be completely honest with you,’ M. Lavalle went on. ‘I had hoped that this might, at some time in the future, be the solution to my dilemma.’

  ‘The solution?’ The realisation hit Henri like a slap in the face: M. Lavalle expected him to marry his daughter. In fact, he appeared to be suggesting that this was a condition for Henri to inherit the business. For a few brief moments Henri had imagined himself the luckiest journeyman alive, but now it had suddenly become so much more complicated.

  For how could he wed Mariette, the little girl he had grown up with, had played childish games with, whom he’d long considered to be his younger sister? Once upon a time he would have been deeply flattered, and his mother would be thrilled. It would have been an excellent match for the once-penniless migrant boy.

  But it did not bear thinking about. Because, now, he knew what being in love really felt like.

  All that night and at his loom the following day, Henri’s head was in turmoil. He seemed to have mislaid the compass that had guided him through life so far – hard work and obedience – and although he could see clearly where his duty now lay, he could not imagine how he could follow it. He needed to talk it through with the only person he could really trust. After work he travelled to Bethnal Green to see his mother, taking with him two hot meat pies, a baked potato from the stall on Brick Lane and a twist of coffee
grounds from M. Lavalle’s kitchen.

  As usual, he found Clothilde at her throwing wheel, working by the light of a single candle. How old and thin she looks, he thought to himself, withered from too much work and not enough leisure. Orders were hard to come by, and she was often required to deliver the thrown silk within an almost impossibly short timescale. She could not afford to turn work down, and frequently stayed up all night to make sure she met the deadline. Apart from weekly attendances at church, she had little time and few opportunities for socialising.

  Her pale face bloomed with pleasure at the sight of him. ‘Henri, quel plaisir,’ she whispered, as they embraced. He took down two pewter plates, laying them out on the simple wooden table, and unwrapped the pies and potato from the scarf he’d tucked inside his jacket.

  ‘Come and eat while these are still warm, Mother. Then you can get back to your throwing and we can talk further as you work. I have brought coffee, too.’

  ‘What a treat. You spoil me.’ She put down her spindle and came to the table. ‘How is life with you, my boy?’ she asked, tucking into the pie with her usual hunger.

  ‘I have settled on the design for my master piece at last,’ he said. ‘All I need now is Monsieur Lavalle’s agreement to use the loom for a few weeks.’

  ‘And may I see it?’

  ‘I have it here, but let us look at it when our fingers are not covered in gravy.’

  They finished their meal and Henri lit a small fire sufficient to boil just two cups of water. After admiring the painting and praising the naturalness of its forms, she asked, ‘And who is your designer?’

  Henri began the long explanation of how he had obtained Anna’s first sketch and how she had been so keen to help she had recently done a new, coloured version. He was aware of talking too much, of using her name too often, but could not stop: it gave him a frisson of joy every time. With a mother’s intuition, Clothilde went straight to the point.