by Liz Trenow
So when a tall, gaunt-looking fellow in a newly powdered wig and perfectly white hose stepped into his cell and introduced himself as Charles Hinchliffe, lawyer, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Accompanying him was another man, smaller and altogether less impressive, whose face seemed familiar.
‘Henri Vendôme? I have come to get you out of here,’ the lawyer said, without preamble. ‘We believe that this man here, William Sadler, may have been a witness to your innocence.’ Now the mystery was solved Henri became even more confused. Surely this was Anna’s cousin, the brute who had punched him in the street outside the Red Lyon that day? How could he possibly be a witness?
The answer came as soon as Sadler opened his mouth. Henri now knew, with a powerful certainty, that he was indeed the man who had cursed him in the alleyway next to The Dolphin that terrible night. A genuine witness, at last, after all these weeks of waiting! Could this be truly happening, or was it a dream? But how had they come to be here? What had made William come forward? Who was paying for this smart society lawyer? Nothing was explained, and he was too astonished to ask.
Mr Hinchliffe asked Henri to recount the story of that night, telling nothing but the whole truth. Henri, his head reeling, did his best. Then he enquired as to whether Henri recognised William as the man he had encountered that night, outside The Dolphin pub, and he agreed that he did. Though it had been dark, the voice was unmistakeable, he said.
The lawyer then turned to William and asked whether he recognised Henri as the man who had been in the alleyway that night, and he acknowledged that he did. There was no mention of the other circumstances, or the whore. Would the two of them be prepared to swear to it under oath, on the Bible, in front of a judge? They both agreed.
Charles went on to explain that after making their statements they must both agree never to speak of this discussion, or reveal each other’s identity in this matter to any other party in the future. This was to be an entirely clandestine arrangement. They concurred and shook hands. Shortly afterwards, Charles and William departed.
That afternoon, the guard brought Henri some clean clothes and a bowl of water with some soap and a cloth to wash his face. ‘Make yourself respectable, quick sharp, laddie,’ he said brusquely. ‘Can’t have you appearing before his honour looking like something dragged in from the gutter, can we?’
To catcalls and curses from the other inmates, he was led along many corridors and through several doors to a small room in which sat a large, florid-faced man in a shoulder-length wig, who was introduced as the judge. Also in the room were William Sadler, Charles Hinchliffe and a clerk who scribbled down every word spoken.
He was required to place his hand on a Bible and swear that he would tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and then asked to repeat his story. The judge asked a couple of questions: how could he know it was William Sadler, given it was so dark? And could he swear that he had not at any time that evening entered The Dolphin? He answered both as well as he could.
When the judge was satisfied, the clerk pushed forward a piece of paper which he was told to read and sign. William Sadler then had to repeat the process, swearing to tell the truth, recounting his side of the story, answering a few questions, then signing his statement. Without further explanation, Henri was dismissed and returned to his cell, scarcely daring to imagine what, if anything, might happen next.
Then, this morning, he’d woken to the sound of his cell door opening and the guard saying, ‘Wakey, wakey. You’re free to go.’
Surely he was dreaming? ‘What, now? This very minute?’ he heard his voice saying.
‘Right now. Come on. Scram, before they change their minds.’
After three weeks in the gloom of the prison, the sunlight was blinding.
As he stumbled down the steps onto the street, familiar faces and voices emerged out of the glare. His mother, Clothilde, was wrapping a sweet-smelling woollen blanket around his shoulders and enfolding him into her arms, the warm, firm hold that had comforted him since birth. ‘Mon trésor, mon petit garçon,’ she whispered, over and over again. ‘Thank the Lord. You are back with us at last.’
Mariette was by his side, kissing his cheek and taking his hand, her high-pitched voice squeaking words he found unintelligible. M. Lavalle stood to the front of him, placing a hand on each of his cheeks and, in an unexpectedly intimate gesture, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. ‘Mon fils,’ he said. ‘My son, my son.’ Beyond him, in a row, were Benjamin, the cook and the drawboy – the entire household – all of them grinning from ear to ear.
Henri could hardly take it in. Much as he had longed for it, he now found himself recoiling from human contact, consumed by the awareness of how filthy and stinking he must be, of how he must go home to change from these sordid rags, to shave and scrub away the grime of the prison, the smells of human excrement and fear.
In a daze, he allowed himself to be dragged along, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the sunlight. And then he saw her, running at full tilt towards them, skirt hitched and showing her boots, her bonnet loosening and flying back from her head.
As she approached, the image seemed to take on a magical quality, a brilliance and intensity, as if she were some kind of ephemeral being. The world appeared to slow down, the voices distanced as though he were inside a glass bowl. Am I imagining this? he asked himself. Is it a mirage?
But no, it was real. She stopped, a few yards away, and he stopped, and the whole entourage stopped.
‘Henri,’ she whispered, her cheeks glowing pinkly. ‘I am so sorry to intrude, but I just had to see you.’
He forgot how dirty and smelly he was, forgot his mother, his master and Mariette, and stepped forward, taking her out-held hands.
‘Anna,’ he said. ‘Is it you?’ His eyes were drawn into that deep blue-green gaze, until he sensed a movement behind her and looked up to the tall, stooped figure with a clerical collar arriving at her side.
M. Lavalle’s voice boomed in his ear. ‘Henri, may we be introduced?’
‘Allow me,’ Theodore said. ‘Anna is a friend to Henri and I am her father, Theodore Butterfield, pleased to meet you.’
Henri gathered his wits. ‘Anna, Reverend Butterfield, please meet my mother, Clothilde, my master Monsieur Lavalle and his daughter Mariette.’ He turned to M. Lavalle. ‘I suspect it may be Anna and her father that I have to thank for my release.’ As he looked back into Anna’s face she gave the hint of a nod.
‘Then we owe you the greatest honour in the world, my friends,’ M. Lavalle said, doffing his cap. ‘May we invite you to visit us once Henri has had time to recover from this ordeal?’
‘And take a bath,’ Henri said, once more aware of his filthy state. Everyone laughed.
‘Très bonne idée, you smell terrible,’ his mother said. ‘But what do we care? You are back with us, that is all that matters.’
Theodore put his hand on Anna’s shoulder. ‘It would be our greatest pleasure to visit you. But for now, we must leave you in peace. Come, Anna.’
It was only when she turned to leave that Henri realised, throughout all of this conversation, they had not loosed their hands. Letting go felt like a small bereavement.
Everything had happened so fast, he mused to himself as he lay back in the tin bathtub of steaming water in front of a roaring fire. Everyone else was banished upstairs. Only Cook, who had bathed him since he was a raw ten-year-old apprentice, was allowed to stay, replenishing the hot water from a kettle steaming on the range.
Also on the range was bubbling a stew of mutton and dumplings, and in the fire below were potatoes baking in their skins. Even though he’d already eaten a small snack of bread and cheese and taken half a pint of porter that had made his head swim, the delicious smells were causing his stomach to rumble all over again. But the luxury of soaking in this warm, sweet-smelling bath was too glorious to hurry.
As they sat down to luncheon, Henri recounted what he could of the events of the past few days. W
hen they asked who the elusive witness was he said, truthfully, that he had sworn on the Bible to preserve the man’s anonymity. And where did this grand lawyer come from, they asked? Who was paying his fee? Again, he could not answer.
He wanted to know how M. Lavalle and his mother had known to come to the prison at the precise moment of his release. His master explained that an anonymous note had been thrust under the front door late last night. All it said was: Henri to be freed 8 a.m. It was all very mystifying but, given the happy outcome, everyone around the table agreed it was hardly important any more.
He felt an overwhelming gratitude towards Anna and her father, certain that they must have engineered his release. Had she somehow divined from their conversation in the prison that her cousin William was the witness, the man with the lisp? Had she persuaded him to come forward in his defence? But who had paid for the lawyer? He doubted that a vicar would have that kind of money, and surely it could not have been the miserly uncle, Joseph Sadler?
Much later, after all the stew had been eaten, several jugs of porter had been drunk, much news had been shared and many embraces and kisses exchanged, Henri excused himself and retired to his room. But, weary as he was, he found himself afraid to sleep, for fear of waking to discover that it had all been a dream.
Listening to the sounds of the household around and above him, the clatter of Cook in the kitchen, the familiar squeaks of the floorboards, the murmur of voices and the smell of M. Lavalle’s pipe tobacco, he found himself smiling in the darkness at this unexpected, extraordinary turn in his fortunes.
The tuneless tinkle of the harpsichord started up – Mariette practising for the visitors. ‘Oh, Mariette,’ he sighed. She had greeted him like an overexcited puppy, barely able to stop herself from touching his sleeve, holding his hand, pasting chaste kisses onto his cheek. He was pleased to see her too, of course, but just as a brother would on being reunited with his sister. Never in a hundred years could he imagine her as his bride.
Prison had changed him, cleared his mind. In the bleakest moments, he’d promised himself that if he ever managed to gain his freedom, he would live to the full whatever future was granted to him. He would stop being so concerned about what others thought and allow his own conscience to lead him, rather than always doing what others expected. Above all, he would lead a quiet life, a domestic life, he hoped, well away from politics and protest.
Despite M. Lavalle’s assurances he felt it unlikely that he would receive his mastership, given his reckless behaviour and prison record. The suggestion of inheritance would, he was sure, receive no further mention: for how could his master entrust his precious business to such an irresponsible fool? But he was certain, still, that silk weaving was in his blood. He would apply himself to his craft and set up his own business as best he could, and work hard to recover the respect of those he loved: his mother, M. Lavalle and the family and . . . Anna.
Even the thought of her brought butterflies to his stomach. M. Lavalle had already sent an invitation to Spital Square, for tea the following afternoon. His mother and Miss Charlotte were coming too.
He visualised Anna on the step with her father, welcoming her in, taking her cloak and smelling on it her sweet, wildflower fragrance, sitting close to her and talking openly, without having to whisper in that clandestine way when they had met before. Then, after tea, he would show her his master piece, the realisation of her very own design, and watch the look of wonder and joy creep over her face.
Henri woke with a start, not knowing how long he had slept. No slivers of light pierced through the wainscot and the house was silent. He peered through the door into the kitchen. The fire was out, the bird asleep in its covered cage. It must be the dead of night.
Lighting a candle, he pulled on his breeches and slippers and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He’d been dreaming about weaving – it was nearly a month since he’d held a shuttle in his hand and yesterday he had been so busy eating and talking that he had not even found a moment to visit the weaving loft. Avoiding the creaky treads, he made his way up two flights of stairs and then climbed the ladder to the loft. He pushed up the hatch, climbed through and then, carefully feeding the knotted rope through his hands, hinged it gently to the floor with only the slightest clunk.
The dry, nutty smell of the silk was so familiar, so comforting, it felt like being welcomed into the arms of a lover. Holding his candle high, he scrutinised the work on the three looms. Benjamin was weaving a dusty pink damask, he could see, and the small plain loom was, as usual, being used for narrow-width black satin facings. And then he saw to his astonishment that on his own loom was the brocade that he had been weaving to Anna’s design. He shook his head, bewildered. Surely he remembered taking the piece off the loom? He had delivered it to the Weavers’ Hall with his own hands.
Peering at the take-up beam, he guessed the roll held around six yards. He had never woven this much; he’d only had time for a single repeat of the figure, as required for the Company. He was still puzzling over this when he heard the creak of the ladder, and turned to see M. Lavalle’s night cap appearing through the hatch.
‘I thought it must be you,’ the old man said, blinking sleepily.
‘Pardon me if I disturbed you, sir. I am just reacquainting myself with the looms.’
M. Lavalle climbed the remaining treads and stepped to Henri’s side.
‘I hope you don’t mind. I asked Benjamin to continue weaving your brocade. He’s done a good job of it, don’t you think?’
‘It is just as I would have woven it,’ Henri admitted uneasily. ‘But may I ask, sir . . .’ The question stalled in his throat. What if the answer was negative? He tried again: ‘I have failed you, master. If you were to send me away, I would understand.’
‘Failed me? Send you away? Don’t be ridiculous!’ M. Lavalle’s laugh filled the room. ‘Come. Take a seat.’ He lowered himself stiffly to the loom bench, patting the board beside him. ‘You acted foolishly, that I grant, and you have paid dearly for it. But let that be the end of the matter. Surely you can see how pleased we all are to have you back with us? You are like a son to me, and will be always welcome in my house and my employ. What you decide to do when you achieve your mastership is, of course, your decision.’
‘How can I thank you enough?’ Henri said. ‘I cannot imagine any life but the one I have enjoyed here for the past years. Except . . .’ Again he stalled. How could he tell this kind, generous man, upon whom he looked as a father, that he could not accept his generous offer of inheritance? That, in effect, he did not want to be his son?
M. Lavalle leaned across, taking Henri’s hand in his. ‘This is about Mariette, is it not?’
Henri nodded. Words failed him.
‘There was a time I imagined that you two might marry,’ M. Lavalle said quietly. ‘But I have changed my mind. In fact, I would not consent to it, even if you asked me. It would result in a life of unhappiness for both of you.’
Henri turned to him, confused. ‘But why . . . ?’
‘It was quite obvious to me, to your mother, indeed to anyone watching you in the street yesterday, that your affections lie elsewhere.’
‘My mother?’
‘It was she who made it clear to me. “We are going to have to let him follow his heart, Jean.” Those were her words, and straight away I knew she was right. I believe that Mariette understood it, too, for she said she had never before seen such a look on your face.’
Henri sighed, a long exhalation that seemed to draw all of the tension and fear from his body. ‘It is true,’ he admitted, almost under his breath. ‘I am sorry to disappoint Mariette’s feelings for me, if she had any.’
‘She is young yet, and there are plenty of handsome young men to catch her eye. But is your regard for Miss Butterfield reciprocated, do you believe?’
‘I believe that Anna feels the same for me. But whether her family will allow her to marry a lowly French journeyman, that I cannot tell.’
‘It will depend on her father, of course, but from the little I saw yesterday he seems an open-minded sort. Besides, you will soon become a master weaver with your own profitable business – surely a good catch for any young woman?’
‘My own business? But I thought . . . ?’
‘My offer stands, even if you are not to be my son-in-law. I cannot think of anyone else to whom I would want to entrust the business,’ M. Lavalle said.
Henri felt his eyes fill with tears. How could so much happiness be handed to him, in such a short space of time, when less than twenty-four hours before he was mouldering in prison, expecting transportation, or even death, to be his fate? He wiped his face with his sleeve and turned to face his master.
‘How can I ever—’ He had no time to finish because he found himself in a powerful, warm embrace.
‘No words are needed, my son,’ M. Lavalle whispered into his ear.
It was not only the lack of sleep which left Henri feeling as though he were in some kind of dream.
Observing his mother being charmed by Anna’s passionate talk of art and nature, listening with one ear to M. Lavalle and the reverend animatedly discussing whether politics and morality could ever be bedfellows, and watching Mariette and Charlotte excitedly poring over copies of The Guide to Modern Fashion, a sort of ecstasy seemed to flow through him, thrilling and comforting at the same time. Everything that he could possibly desire, his friends, his family and those whom he loved, as well as the silk and his weaving, were right here in this house.
Every chair in the house had been brought to the parlour, where a blazing fire glinted cheerfully off the dark-wood panelling. Cook served tea in the best porcelain, along with some delicate langues de chat biscuits, a speciality to impress the English guests.
From time to time, he and Anna would exchange discreet glances and the smallest of smiles which made his heart seem momentarily to stop beating. He could see, without a doubt, that she felt happy here with him and in the company of his household.
