The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  ‘This artist girl is clearly talented. But there is more, is there not, Henri?’

  He nodded, lowering his face to hide the flush flooding his cheek. ‘I cannot deny it. I think I am in love with her, and believe she feels the same about me.’

  Clothilde smiled encouragingly, but inside her heart was sinking. How long would this latest passion last? Henri had already gained something of a reputation at church for the frequency with which he seemed to fall in love – often to the disapprobation of the girl’s parents – but it never seemed to endure. She could only hope that, one day, he would come to understand that a pretty face did not necessarily make a good wife.

  ‘When can I meet this young woman?’ she said.

  There was no avoiding the truth, for it would surely emerge in time. He told her about the Sadler family, and how he was afraid they would not consider him good enough for their niece, for whom they were probably seeking a good society match. He omitted to mention their bigotry about French weavers and the accusation against them of illegal imports.

  As he spoke, her face clouded over. ‘Beware of getting ideas above your station, son. You must give up the idea of this girl at once,’ she said.

  ‘But I love her, Mother. I will die if I cannot be with her.’

  She laughed at his tragic expression. ‘When do you not imagine yourself to be in love, Henri?’ she asked. ‘Believe me, it will only lead to heartbreak once more.’

  It was like an intense weight in his chest, thickly compressing his breath: the knowledge that his mother was right and that his love for Anna was merely a fantasy, never to be realised because of the difference between their positions in society. He felt like running away, to avoid facing the truth of her words.

  The pot was boiling. Henri added the twist of coffee grounds, stirred them, and poured the coffee through a scrap of muslin into two earthenware cups.

  ‘What a luxury,’ she said, lifting the cup to her nose to draw in its sweet aroma.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he said, gathering himself.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Which makes this even more complicated.’

  ‘I am all ears.’

  As simply as possible, he described the conversation he’d had with M. Lavalle the previous evening.

  Even before he’d finished, Clothilde was tutting with frustration. ‘Just listen to yourself,’ she burst out. ‘I cannot believe that I have such a fool for a son. You have come from absolutely nothing, and you have been offered an extraordinary opportunity to inherit a profitable and highly respected business, a fine house and the chance of a beautiful young woman’s hand in marriage. And you cannot decide whether to accept? You are an idiot, boy. If you were any younger, I’d put you over my knee and knock some sense into you.’

  ‘But I do not love Mariette,’ he said, his heart breaking quietly.

  Her face was severe now, her voice uncompromising. ‘It is time to put aside such childish notions, Henri. Few of us have the luxury of marrying for love and many would envy being the object of Mariette’s affections. She is charming and pretty, and her father is one of the most well-respected silk masters in Spitalfields. What could possibly be wrong with that? You will grow to love the girl, of that I have no doubt. You cannot afford not to.’

  The candle began to gutter; it was almost burned out.

  ‘Ignore my words at your peril, mon fils,’ she went on. ‘God has handed you the blessed chance of a good life. I beg you, do not turn it down.’

  As he trudged the two miles back to Wood Street in a fine drizzle, Henri could think of little else but Anna. He could not imagine never being able to see her, never again looking into her blue-green eyes or experiencing that intense shimmer of affinity and unspoken understanding.

  ‘I love her!’ he shouted, out loud. ‘How can I give that up?’

  His words echoed around the empty streets. They gave no reply, but he knew what the answer must be and where his obligations lay; his respect for M. Lavalle and all that he had done for him, the responsibility he felt for his mother and the honour due to the memory of his lost family – all this added up to a duty that he must obey.

  It was a double bind: if he turned down the chance to inherit M. Lavalle’s business, he would be throwing away the very opportunity which might enable him to rise in society and have even the slightest prospect of marrying a girl like Anna. And yet he could not inherit unless he denied the chance of any future with her.

  ‘I am damned if I do, and damned if I don’t,’ he muttered angrily, as it began to rain more heavily.

  He arrived back in Wood Street, soaked to the skin, to find a grim-faced M. Lavalle reading the newspaper. In silence, he passed it to Henri.

  CUTTERS RAID

  24TH NOVEMBER 1760

  At Bethnal Green, on Tuesday evening, a crowd of unruly journeymen claiming to be members of the Bold Defiance broke open the house of one John Poor, weaver, threatening him and his wife with a musket and destroying many of his looms, cutting to pieces much valuable silke.

  They claim that he was working for M. Chauvet and had ‘broken the book’, referring to the ‘Book of Prices’ which they are seeking to impose for their work. Ten men are being held at Newgate, pending trial.

  As he read the stark words, Henri felt the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Is this something to do with Guy?’ he asked.

  M. Lavalle nodded his head. ‘His mother called earlier to see me. She is in a desperate state and wanted me to help. He got in with the wrong crowd, just as I feared, and went out on the cutting raid.’

  Henri had heard tell, of course, about the groups of journeymen so desperate that they had broken into the premises of silk masters who failed to pay the going rates, and slashed the silk warps on their looms. But surely Guy would not undertake anything so dangerous?

  ‘What happened? Why on earth was Guy there?’ His mouth was so dry that he could barely force the words past his lips. He began to shiver as M. Lavalle finished filling and lighting his pipe.

  ‘It is a bad business, I’m afraid. He was with a gang going to cut the silk in the house of a weaver – this man Poor, who is working for master Chauvet. Someone threatened Poor’s wife with a gun. Guy was caught and arrested, and he’s in gaol. His mother’s been told that if he is found guilty, he could be transported or even hanged.’

  Henri’s breath seemed to stop in his chest. Chauvet was powerful and notorious for banning his workers from joining the weavers’ clubs or paying any levies. There had even been riots outside his house after which he’d employed his own guard, which is probably why they attacked one of his weavers instead. But why had Guy got involved? Surely he couldn’t have been the one with a gun? He was hot-headed sometimes, but never violent. It was impossible to comprehend.

  ‘Saleté! That’s terrible news.’ His own concerns seemed now so inconsequential, so frivolous.

  There was no escaping the grim image of his friend, cold, frightened and hungry, shackled in a damp and dismal cell with heaven knows how many other dangerous and diseased men. He might be headstrong and a bit foolish, but he was no criminal. Like himself, Guy had worked his way up from nothing, completed his apprenticeship with scarcely a blot on his record, had managed to rent a room and a loom and gained a few good contracts as a journeyman. Of course he was young and passionate and, like Henri, fell in love with every girl in sight, but he’d often shared his dreams of owning a house and running his own business, of marrying, having a family, of living a long and prosperous life.

  Now, that life could simply be snuffed out, on the decision of a judge.

  ‘Can the church elders do anything to help?’ he asked.

  M. Lavalle shook his head. ‘We can try to get him bailed, but I doubt that’d do any good. We shall visit him in prison and see what we can do to make his stay more comfortable. But in the end, there is nothing anyone can do to divert the course of the law.’

  Just as he uttered these words, almost a
s if to emphasise them, there was a loud hammering at the front door.

  ‘By Christ, who can that be at this time of night?’ M. Lavalle muttered.

  The answer came immediately. ‘Open up, open up. It’s the Guards. If you do not, we will break down the door.’

  M. Lavalle opened it and without any by-your-leave five burly men in grubby uniforms and heavy boots tramped past him into the parlour. The room felt suddenly very small and cramped.

  The tallest of the men, obviously their leader, fixed Henri with a fearsome stare. ‘Henri Vendôme?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Henri said, trying to keep the quake from his voice.

  ‘We have reason to believe that you have been consorting with a man charged with murder,’ the big man said. ‘Guy Lemaitre?’

  ‘He is a fellow journeyman, a member of our church, sir. I have known him most of my life.’

  ‘You were a signatory to this Book of Prices?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I believed it might ease potential hardship and unrest.’

  ‘Well, you were wrong, lad. Your signature is next to that of Lemaitre and others who have been involved in criminal activity. Where were you last Tuesday evening?’

  ‘At home here, sir. My master Monsieur Lavalle can attest to that.’

  M. Lavalle was hidden from Henri’s view by the five huge men, but his voice was strong. ‘Indeed I can, and would be prepared to swear on the Bible to that effect. I have known Henri Vendôme for more than ten years and he is a God-fearing, law-abiding young man who would not even consider becoming involved in anything illegal. Your presence in this house is unwelcome, sirs,’ he went on. ‘And I now beg you to leave immediately before you disturb my young daughter.’

  ‘Very well.’ The leader turned back. ‘Just you make sure you stay well away from trouble, laddie.’ He pushed his face so close that Henri could smell the meaty, beery breath. ‘Or I swear I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure that you follow your friend to the gallows.’

  The other men laughed and the four pushed past M. Lavalle so roughly that he had to hold on to the door to prevent himself falling.

  15

  It is a good plan to have books and pictures on the centre table, and scattered about your drawing room. You must, of course, converse with each caller, but these trifles are an excellent pastime, and serve as subjects for conversation.

  – The Lady’s Book of Manners

  For Anna, the days following her visit to Wood Street seemed to pass at a snail’s pace.

  She had read and reread Henri’s letter until the paper became worn and the folds began to tear. The sweet intimacy of those last words left her breathless: 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.

  She pressed the paper to her heart. That moment was real, she thought to herself. He feels as I do. She pictured him at his loom, working on the complex system of knots and lashes needed to create the design, smelled the sweet, musty, nutty smell of the silk and felt the rough, uneven boards of the loom loft under her feet.

  But now, the prospect of seeing Henri again seemed so remote that the memories only served to make her even more miserable. That day, after bidding farewell to Miss Charlotte, Anna had calculated that she would have plenty of time to spare. Aunt Sarah and Lizzie would be travelling all the way to Hackney for tea, so they were unlikely to return before five, she reckoned, at the very earliest.

  Arriving back at half past four, she fully expected to be able to slip up to her room unnoticed and resume her ‘rest’ well in advance of their return. She approached Spital Square with caution to avoid being observed and entered the house as quietly as possible so as not to alert anyone in the office next door.

  She thought at first that she must have imagined it. But there it was again, unmistakeably, her aunt’s voice, calling from the drawing room: ‘Anna, is that you?’

  There was no escape. Anna paused outside the door, straightening her skirt and pinning stray curls back under her bonnet while desperately trying to formulate a plausible story.

  ‘You are returned early, Aunt,’ she said, smiling as cheerfully as possible.

  ‘It seems they told us the wrong day,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘We travelled all that way and no one was at home to receive us. It was simply too humiliating. We shall not be accepting any future invitations from that family.’

  ‘I am so sorry. The good news is that my head feels much brighter after a short breath of fresh air.’

  ‘That is indeed cheering news, Niece. But it does not console me. The truth is that we have been back since before three of the clock and you were already gone. You did not inform Betty that you were leaving and you have only now returned, a full hour and a half later. Please, close the door behind you and take a seat, for I am greatly disturbed and wish to hear your explanation.’

  ‘I have been to visit Miss Charlotte, to check on some alterations she is doing. We took tea and had a delightful conversation,’ Anna extemporised. ‘The time flew by.’

  Aunt Sarah frowned, shook her head and sighed. ‘If there is one thing I dislike more than disobedience, it is duplicity.’ Her voice came out in a sharp rasp. ‘You are lying to me, young woman. I will not tolerate it.’

  Anna’s head began to spin. How could her aunt possibly know?

  ‘When you did not return within the half hour, I began to worry for your welfare. Lizzie suggested that you might have gone to visit Miss Charlotte, since she believed that you may have become acquainted. We shall speak more of this later, Niece, since it is entirely inappropriate for a young woman of your standing to cultivate such a friendship with a tradesperson, pleasant though she may be. In any case, I am fully aware that Miss Charlotte’s shop is never open on a Tuesday afternoon, for that is her early closing day. In the end, I sent Betty to see and of course the shop was closed. She knocked and rang, but there was no answer.’

  Anna lowered her eyes to avoid her aunt’s furious glare as she frantically tried to work out her next move. Should she attempt another half-lie, or was it best to come clean? Either way, she was in deep trouble.

  ‘Have you nothing to say, girl?’

  She tried to conjure her father’s kindly face. His voice came into her head, quiet and clear, just as if she were listening to him reading the gospel in church: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

  ‘I am sorry for not letting Betty know where I had gone, to avoid your concern. But I did not lie to you, Aunt. I did visit Miss Charlotte, for I enjoy her company and I make no apology for this, for I have no other friends here in the city and find myself quite lonely at times.’

  Sarah tried to interrupt, but Anna persevered.

  ‘We did take tea but after that she had an errand to run, and I decided to join her. It was to deliver a design to a weaver. He invited us inside to see his looms so that we could understand better how the design would be woven. It was so fascinating that we stayed longer than we had intended.’

  Sarah’s jowls drooped with astonishment. She was no longer attempting to intervene.

  ‘The thing is, Aunt, I do not feel I have anything for which to apologise. I am fully eighteen years old, I am growing used to London ways and I have the greatest regard for, and trust in, Miss Charlotte. You must not blame her for any part of this, for the decision to accompany her was entirely my own. She would not have led me into any impropriety and at no time were we ever separated. I have had a delightful and informative afternoon and cannot see the harm.’

  Aunt Sarah went to the fireplace, rearranging the ornaments and cards for several long seconds before turning back to Anna, a ferocious frown distorting her normally benign features. ‘You are a very wilful and headstrong young woman.’ Her voice was calm and controlled but the pink spots on her cheeks belied an inner tumult. ‘You should know perfectly well by now how to comport yourself in polite society. We cannot lock you in, but if you continue to act like this without regard f
or your reputation, I fear we may have to send you back to Suffolk. I shall have to discuss the matter with Mr Sadler, but in the meantime please go to your room and remain there until supper, or until I call you.’

  Supper was conducted in virtual silence, and afterwards she was summoned to be told that her uncle would be writing to her father to review the current arrangements. In the meantime she would not be allowed to leave the house at all, except for church or another prearranged purpose.

  She managed to maintain her composure until she reached her room. Once there, she threw herself onto the bed and sobbed until her head ached and her eyes were red raw.

  It was another dull afternoon, with rain clattering on the windows and the drawing room cast into such gloom it seemed as though dusk was already falling, even though it was but two o’clock. She sat by the window reading as Lizzie hammered the harpsichord, making the same mistakes over and over again until she felt like a spring coiled ever tighter and tighter. Any moment now I shall scream and throw this book at her, or worse.

  Betty knocked at the door: it was a letter from Charles, asking if he could visit that very afternoon. Her heart sank.

  ‘Oh, my dear, this is most excellent news,’ Aunt Sarah declared, beaming. ‘Perhaps this will be the big moment.’ She’s only thrilled because if he proposes they can be rid of me, Anna thought miserably.

  Her aunt was prattling on: ‘Ask Betty to bring two large jugs of warm water and my best bar of scented soap to your room, so that you will smell of a sweet summer’s day. You should wear the green damask, perhaps? You need to look at your most alluring without appearing to be overdressed, and I shall lend you my best lace cuffs, my dear, and some pretty starched lappets for your hair. There’s nothing like a little bit of Taunton lace to draw attention to delicate wrists and an elegant neck.’