The Silk Weaver

by Liz Trenow

  What did my father and sisters die for? To find freedom for our family. And how do I, the last remaining child, repay them? By becoming a good-for-nothing who has thrown away every opportunity that has come to him.

  In a dim memory from his childhood, he recalled one of his father’s favourite sayings: Where there’s life there is hope. But for how long would he manage to hold on to his own life, he wondered? It seemed the authorities wanted to wipe out the Bold Defiance completely. If no one came forward to prove his innocence, might he soon be following Guy to his grave?

  21

  There can be no doubt Providence has willed that man should be the head of the human race, even as woman is its heart; that he should be its strength, as she is its solace; that he should be its wisdom, as she is its grace; that he should be its mind, its impetus, and its courage, as she is its sentiment, its charm, and its consolation.

  – The Lady’s Book of Manners

  Anna was all for going directly to Miss Charlotte’s shop as soon as the coach set them down outside the Red Lyon.

  ‘I will not rest easy until I know,’ she chafed, but night had already fallen. The shop would be shut and Joseph and Sarah were expecting them for supper.

  ‘We’ve had a long journey and we need to eat and rest, my love,’ Theodore said. ‘To prepare ourselves properly.’

  Still tucked into her muff, where she had held it like a talisman for much of the journey, was the envelope containing Charlotte’s letter and the newspaper cutting.

  She could still picture the moment she’d read those words, when her world turned upside down. Henri, in gaol, possibly sentenced to death? Perhaps already hanged? How could that be possible? He seemed so dutiful, so level-headed. She had known about the journeymen’s riots, of course, but could not imagine him being part of that lawless gang of thugs.

  She must have uttered a small yelp, because her father had immediately come to her side. ‘What is it, dearest? Bad news? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’ She’d passed the note to him, wordlessly, barely able to speak for the shock of it. Then she showed him the newspaper report.

  ‘Is the letter from your seamstress friend? The one you told me about a few days ago?’

  She nodded.

  ‘This Henri she writes of is the weaver boy? And you think that he might already have . . . ?’

  She nodded again, still too numb to weep.

  He put his arm around her. ‘Take heart, my dearest. If he is the man you have described to me, it seems most unlikely that he would have committed any such crime. I am sure he will not be one of those mentioned in the newspaper. The law does not move that quickly. However, we must go to their aid at once.’

  ‘Whatever can we do? We have no money to pay for his bail or buy clever lawyers.’ As she said it, the idea came into her head: she did know a lawyer, albeit one not fully qualified.

  ‘We could visit the young man, at the very least, to cheer his soul,’ her father was saying.

  She recalled the cold tone of Henri’s last letter. ‘I am not sure I would be welcome.’

  ‘But can you ignore your friend’s request?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I must go and do what I can, or I will never rest easy.’

  ‘Then we shall write at once, and make preparations. I shall come with you. Let me get my Sunday duties out of the way, and we shall go on Monday.’

  ‘What about Jane?’

  ‘She will stay with Mrs Chapman next door, as usual.’

  ‘I am sure we will not be welcome at Spital Square, with Joseph’s troubles.’

  ‘Pssht. They’ve still got a house, haven’t they? We are family. And we won’t burden them for long.’

  Anna was dreading the inevitable interrogation by her aunt and uncle. Her father was adamantly opposed even to white lies, but during the journey she had managed to persuade him that revealing their true purpose would cause outrage. She could so clearly imagine her aunt spluttering, A French weaver? In prison? Whatever business is it of yours, Theodore?

  Neither was she looking forward to returning to the sunless house in Spital Square. When she’d closed the door behind her, a few short weeks ago, she had breathed a sigh of relief, never imagining that she would return so soon. It had been a place of so much loneliness, ignominy and sadness.

  As it turned out, Joseph and Sarah appeared delighted to see them and had laid on an impressive spread for supper: hot roast pheasants, cold cuts and an apple turnover for pudding. The fires were burning merrily in every room, and many candles were lit. No sign of belts being pulled in here, Anna thought to herself.

  Lizzie flung herself upon her cousin as soon as they entered, and had clung to her side ever since. Even William seemed in an unusually cheerful mood. After several glasses of his best claret – to celebrate the value of family, he’d declared – Joseph began to expand on his plans for turning around their business fortunes.

  ‘Have you heard? The new king has chosen his queen. She comes to London this spring to prepare for their wedding. It’s the best possible news for the silk trade, mark my words.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Anna enquired.

  ‘A German princess,’ Sarah said. ‘Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. Word is she’s no great beauty, so there will be all the more reason to bedeck her in the best silks. They will marry in July and the coronation is planned for a fortnight later.’

  ‘Every mercer in the land is busy buttering up anyone who might be appointed royal costumier,’ William said drily.

  ‘But even if we don’t supply her trousseau, can you imagine all the dress silks that will be required for their guests?’ Joseph said. ‘It is just a matter of finding the best possible designs to catch the eye of the courtiers and their ladies.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I haven’t been in the business for all these years not to know the next best thing when I see it.’

  Lizzie piped up: ‘And what is the “next best thing”, Papa?’

  ‘I don’t know just yet, my dearest, but when I do I shall work day and night to make sure we get the commissions,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘Anyone for another?’

  ‘Have you heard about the troubles?’ William asked. ‘There have been many shenanigans among the weavers since you left. Journeymen rioting and cutting, and getting themselves hanged. It’s a bad business.’

  ‘We have seen newspaper reports, but they didn’t mention any names,’ Anna said, struggling to keep her voice steady. William left the room and returned shortly with a crumpled newspaper.

  She held it up to the candle and tried to keep her hands from trembling as she scanned the page, fearful that she might encounter Henri’s name. Instead, the name which caught her eye was that of Guy Lemaitre. The report was brief and the ending brutal: Hanged at Bethnal Green.

  She could barely breathe. If Guy had already been sentenced and hanged, might Henri be next? It was all she could do to hold her body still when what she most wanted was to scream. She took a swig of wine and then another, forcing herself to take breaths slowly, in and out, in and out.

  ‘Load of violent villains, the lot of them,’ Joseph was saying. ‘They’ve been holding masters to ransom, forcing them to pay according to their illegal Book of Prices. They’ve got no idea of the consequences: the masters will go to the wall, and then where shall we be?’

  After a sleepless night, Anna sat impatiently through breakfast listening to her father fielding the family’s inquiries about their plans. He spoke in vague terms of meetings and Church business, intimating that they would not be back till late afternoon.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said, as they passed the market, swerving to avoid carts, horses, pedlars and beggars thronging the streets. ‘I don’t remember London being quite so chaotic before.’

  ‘How long is it since you were here last?’

  ‘Ah, it must be twenty or thirty years – before you were born, anyway.’

  ‘They say this part of the city has doubled in size just in th
e past few decades,’ she said. ‘Everyone wants to come here for the work.’

  ‘From all over the world, my ears tell me,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t anyone speak English around here?’

  Miss Charlotte welcomed Anna with a delighted embrace.

  ‘Charlotte, tell me at once, I must know,’ Anna cried. ‘I have read dreadful news of Henri’s friend Guy. But is Henri well?’

  ‘Indeed it is terrible news of Guy. But take heart, Anna. Although Henri is still in gaol, he is not yet come to trial and by all accounts is well.’

  ‘Thank heavens.’ She clasped the door jamb, giddy with relief, only then sensing her father behind her, still waiting on the step. ‘Oh, do forgive my rudeness. Miss Charlotte, please meet my father, Theodore Butterfield.’

  Miss Charlotte dipped her knee. ‘Sir, it is a pleasure. Anna never told me that you were a man of the cloth,’ she said. ‘How should I address you?’

  ‘Theo,’ he said. ‘That’s what everyone else calls me.’

  ‘Will you take tea?’ Charlotte said. ‘And I can relate to you all that has happened.’

  As they were ushered into the rear parlour, Anna recalled that happy afternoon of conversation about William Hogarth and his views on beauty. How long ago that seemed. When they were seated, Charlotte began, ‘It was Mariette, Monsieur Lavalle’s daughter, who first brought me the news. She was so upset, poor little thing. He was arrested the day his friend Guy Lemaitre went to trial – had you met?’

  ‘Briefly, just once, with Henri,’ Anna said. ‘I cannot believe he has been hanged.’

  ‘It was a shock for us all.’ Charlotte looked down at her hands. ‘Especially Henri. He went to the trial but after they were sentenced he went crazy and ended up drinking with a group of those Bold Defiance men. He says he was drunk and didn’t know who they were. He’d already left the group by the time the Runners arrived, but they found him nearby and arrested him anyway.’

  As the story unfolded Anna could hardly believe what Charlotte was telling her. The devastation of hearing Guy’s sentence must have caused Henri to lose his senses.

  ‘Mariette said the people at the French church are doing all they can to get him released,’ Charlotte went on. ‘I really have no idea what to do for the best. Which is why I got in touch with you. In case you might know someone . . .’ She tailed off.

  Theodore’s face darkened. ‘This is why we have hastened here, dear Miss Charlotte,’ he said. ‘I suppose Henri has already been asked whether he knows of anyone who might testify to his innocence?’

  She nodded. ‘I believe Monsieur Lavalle has pressed him on this point, but he says he was so befuddled by the ale that his memory is poor.’

  ‘Is it possible to visit him?’ Anna asked.

  ‘I am told that Newgate is a terrible place – a very hell on earth, someone described it. Monsieur Lavalle would not allow Mariette to go because it would be too upsetting. If you decide to visit, you will have to be strong.’

  ‘I can be as strong as an ox, with my father by my side,’ Anna said.

  ‘I know how much you mean to Henri,’ Charlotte said, a wan smile warming her cheek. ‘He will be very happy to see you. Promise you will return to let me know how he is?’

  Anna’s strength seemed to evaporate as they entered the prison.

  The gatekeeper, an overweight, unshaven man with grease stains down his jerkin, grabbed her father’s proffered sixpence with a burly hand and then, painfully slowly, scanned a long, well-thumbed list.

  ‘Condemned cells,’ he grunted. ‘That way.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ Anna cried. ‘He is not yet come to trial.’

  ‘What it says here, miss,’ was the curt reply.

  Panic filled her heart and she clung to her father’s hand as they walked the dank, gloomy passageways. It truly is a very hell on earth, she thought to herself. The howls and curses, the clanging of doors, the foul stench and the surly, aggressive guards made her wonder how anyone could survive the place.

  It reminded her of the time when, as a small child, she had been locked into a pigsty by some older boys. The terror of being unable to escape the foetid gloom, the air so vile that you could barely breathe, and the ear-splitting squealing of the terrified pigs had caused her nightmares for weeks afterwards.

  She almost wept with relief when the gaoler at the condemned cells claimed no knowledge of a M. Vendôme, and redirected them back to the main block.

  When they eventually found the right cell, and persuaded another gaoler – with more pennies – to unlock the door, she could barely believe that the pathetic human form gazing vacantly at them without recognition, his clothes filthy, his skin scabbed and cheeks hollow, was Henri. Under the layer of grime his face was deathly pale.

  ‘It’s me, Anna,’ she said tentatively, holding out the small parcel of bread and cheese they had brought at Charlotte’s suggestion. As she took a step towards him he cowered as if fearing a blow and then, to her horror, fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands. ‘Non, non, non,’ he said, through muffled sobs. ‘Je ne supporte pas que vous me voyiez dans cet état.’ I cannot bear for you to see me like this.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Miss Charlotte wrote to me. I had to come.’

  Slowly, he turned his face and pulled himself to his feet, stiff as an old man, shaking his head. ‘Je ne crois pas. I have dreamed of you so much. And now you are here,’ he whispered.

  ‘This is my father, Theodore Butterfield,’ she said.

  Henri gathered himself, and made a small bow. ‘Reverend, sir, I thank you. I do not deserve this kindness.’

  ‘It appears, from what we have heard, that you do not deserve to be here at all. My daughter holds you in high regard and we have come to ask if there is anything we can do to ease your situation or to get you released.’

  Theodore’s little speech seemed to strike Henri dumb. He stared at him, mouth agape, for several seconds, until Anna said, ‘Henri, what is it? He’s my father. He will not hurt you.’

  Henri sat down heavily on the bench, shaking his head and rubbing his ears with his hands. ‘Forgive me, sir. Your voice . . . I recognise it. Have we met?’

  ‘I do not believe so,’ Theodore said.

  ‘The man . . . that night. With the . . .’

  ‘The night you were arrested?’ Anna prompted.

  ‘No, it is impossible,’ Henri said, shaking his head again, as if to clear the confusion. ‘That man was younger.’

  ‘You recognised my voice?’ Theodore pressed.

  ‘Please excuse me, sir, it is the way you say some words.’ Henri seemed to mutter to himself, and she could hear that he was repeating ‘deserve’ and ‘released’, imitating her father’s slight fudging of the sibilant consonants.

  ‘Who was this man?’

  ‘He was with me when the Runners arrived,’ Henri said. ‘But he disappeared and I do not know who he is.’

  ‘And why do you need to find him?’

  ‘Because he could tell them I was not with the Bold Defiance men.’

  As he spoke, Anna had a flash of intuition. The slight lisp ran in their family. Being more like her mother, she had not inherited it. But Theodore’s sister Aunt Sarah had it, and Lizzie and William also spoke that way. Surely it could not have been him, in the street that night?

  ‘Can you remember what the man was doing?’

  Beneath the filth, Henri’s face seemed to colour. ‘C’est embarrassant.’

  ‘Was he with a woman?’ Theo asked.

  ‘Précisément. How you say, a working woman?’

  With a prostitute? Little about William would surprise her any more. Her mind raced as she realised that, much as she would dearly wish to offer Henri some crumb of hope in this desperate situation, for the moment she must keep her suspicion to herself. If she was to have any chance of eliciting the truth from William, she would have to do it discreetly.

  They stayed a few moments more, talking about M. Lavalle’s effo
rts to get the charges lifted. ‘Do you have a lawyer?’ Theodore asked.

  ‘A legal clerk from the French church,’ Henri said. ‘But he does not succeed yet.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I am still here.’

  It was the smile that brought Anna to the brink of tears. In it she saw something of the real Henri, the one with whom she had fallen in love. Watching him converse with her father, man to man, she realised that although complete strangers from utterly different worlds, the two were really quite alike: the modest demeanour, the self-deprecating humour, the sharpness of mind concealed within a thoughtful manner, the economical mode of expression in which a few words could convey layers of meaning. And how, when talking with you, their eyes would meet yours, clear and uncomplicated, without demur. Nothing was hidden. You could trust them entirely.

  As they took their leave, Theodore asked whether Henri would mind if he blessed him.

  ‘Je serais honoré,’ he said.

  Her father placed his hands gently on Henri’s bowed head, whispering a short prayer, and Anna found herself sending up her own, heartfelt plea: I don’t care if he is never mine but please, God, release him to live his life to the full. He is too good to die in this terrible place.

  Theodore led her in the direction of St Paul’s Cathedral. ‘Come, my darling, we need some peace. We shall pray for him.’

  Anna was too overawed by the splendour of the interior to pray with any devotion, but the stillness was comforting. After a few minutes, her father rose from his knees and they sat in silence for a while.

  ‘You are right. He is a good man, Anna,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘We must do our best for him. I’d like to meet this legal fellow, to see what he has managed to discover, if anything.’

  ‘Henri’s master, Monsieur Lavalle, would surely introduce us.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  They knocked at the door of 37 Wood Street for as long as they could without seeming impolite but, despite the clack and thud of looms working overhead, no one answered. Anna was reminded of the time she and Miss Charlotte saw Henri clinging to the gantry, nearly falling from the loft window. But today, as a bitter cold wind funnelled showers of sleety rain between the tall buildings, the windows remained firmly closed.