by Liz Trenow
Once tea was over, M. Lavalle took out the package containing the yards of Henri’s master piece fabric that had been returned from the Weavers’ Company. He was nervous now, wondering what Anna would make of his interpretation. The piece was held up and passed around the room, everyone severally exclaiming over it, complimenting Henri on the delicacy and intricacy of the weaving, and Anna on the elegance of the design, the trellis pattern of columbine, the bold-faced daisies and nodding bluebell heads, the curled petals of the dog rose.
He could see, all over again, how the silk threads shimmered and glinted in the firelight, giving the appearance that the stems and flowers were actually stirring in a gentle breeze. The intensity of the colours seemed even more brilliant than he had remembered: the deepest pink stripes in each columbine petal, the bold yellow-gold at the centre of the daisy, the deep purple of the bluebells, the leaves of each plant each in a different shade of green.
When it reached Anna she glanced at him with a shy smile and, without a word, took the silk over to the window. All eyes were upon her as she held it close to her face, examining it section by section. Henri was transfixed: a beam of late afternoon sunshine reflected from a window on the house opposite and fell directly onto her, lighting up the blue of her dress and the halo of curls loosened from her bonnet.
He could bear the suspense no longer. ‘Do you like it, do you approve my work?’
The look on her face as she turned was something he would remember for years to come. She seemed, literally, to be illuminated, her eyes wide in wonder and wet with tears, her smile broader than he had ever seen it.
‘It is wonderful,’ she said simply. ‘I would never have believed that all those details could be translated into the weave of a fabric. You have perfectly reproduced my very rough painting and turned it into a true work of art. Look, even my little beetle is here.’ A single tear escaped down her cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
Everyone laughed, and Henri felt that he might burst with pride. For a second, he was transported back to the market, hanging over the rails of the gallery overlooking the flower stalls, his heart beating wildly as he watched the shapes coming to life at the point of Anna’s graphite. From the moment he’d first held it in his hands the design had almost taken over his world: working out how he could make the loom weave it with the most faithful similitude, the meticulous scrutiny needed to translate it onto squared paper, the painstaking choice of yarn colours, the careful weaving and the satisfaction of watching the finished cloth emerging, inch by slow inch, rolling onto the take-up beam.
All the time, as he’d worked, Anna’s presence had been close, in his mind. And now she was here, in his house, with his family, holding his fabric, the fabric they had created together, the fabric that bore all his love for her. He could not imagine any place, or any company, in which he might find greater happiness. He looked up and realised that everyone was waiting for him to say something, but he found himself overwhelmed, unable to speak for the tears choking his throat.
Charlotte broke the silence. ‘Anna, were you going to ask about the silk for you-know-who?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Anna said, seeming to gather herself as if from a trance. ‘I almost forgot.’ She returned to her chair and handed the silk back to M. Lavalle. ‘You see, my uncle Joseph Sadler and my cousin William have a proposition to make.’
She glanced at Charlotte, who nodded encouragement. ‘They have an appointment with the royal costumiers who are preparing for the wedding of the king and queen,’ she went on. ‘And they wondered whether you would agree to them submitting this fabric for consideration.’
‘Mon Dieu,’ M. Lavalle exclaimed. ‘This is, how you say, a bolt from the blue. But they have not yet seen it for themselves.’
‘They have received a commendation from Miss Charlotte,’ Anna replied.
‘I am astonished – and delighted, of course. Henri, would you allow them to consider your work?’
Henri’s head was spinning. These Sadlers were full of surprises. First William gets him out of gaol, now he wants his silk to clothe a queen.
‘How can we refuse such an honour?’ he managed to stutter.
‘Please convey our thanks. We are much flattered,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘Henri will bring the piece to them in the morning and if they are still interested, then we will meet to discuss terms.’
‘It is a remarkable piece of work, Henri. I cannot imagine how you could weave such a complex thing,’ Anna’s father said.
‘Would you like to see the loom for yourself?’
There was barely room to move once M. Lavalle and Mariette, Henri and his mother, Anna and her father as well as Miss Charlotte had all safely climbed the ladder and negotiated the hatchway into the cool air of the weaving loft. Henri had never seen the attic room so crowded. Benjamin took his bench and began to demonstrate the weaving with the drawboy at his place by the side of the loom, and everyone watched with rapt attention as the pattern emerged with each pass of the shuttle.
Henri glanced anxiously at Anna, standing next to him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittering, as if on the brink of tears again. ‘Are you unwell?’ he whispered.
‘I am better than I can ever remember,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s simply that . . . seeing my design come to life . . . it is just so exciting. I’m so happy that I could cry.’
‘In my humble view, this is the very finest level of craftsmanship,’ M. Lavalle was explaining to Theodore. ‘And when the Company grants Henri his Freedom he will be able to employ others on his own account. He will run the business for me, and I can spend the rest of my days at leisure. That is my plan.’
Clothilde laughed. ‘You will never let go that easily, Jean.’
‘I must say that it sounds like an attractive prospect,’ Theodore said. ‘Regrettably, vicars are not allowed to retire, they must minister to their flock until their very last days or be thrown onto the street.’
‘Then you must depend on your daughter to earn a fortune from her designs,’ M. Lavalle said. ‘Anyone can see she has a talent for it.’
Henri took care to ensure that he and Anna were the last to take their turn down the ladder. As she went to prepare for the descent, he took her hand, holding her back.
‘I want . . . I cannot thank you enough for all you do for me.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she said. ‘About offering the silk to my uncle? It was Charlotte’s suggestion.’
‘Don’t mind? I am most . . .’ He struggled for the right word. ‘Delighted. Very much flattered.’
‘I am glad.’ Her smile seemed to him the most beautiful sight in the world.
‘But more than that, I want to ask . . .’ He faltered. ‘I think you know . . . ?’
She nodded, turning her face to his so that he found himself lost in her gaze all over again.
‘Would you . . . ?’ He could hear his own heart beating in his chest.
And then, so quietly that he could barely hear it, she whispered, ‘Yes, Henri. I would.’
He lifted her chin and their lips met, so quickly and chastely that afterwards, as he tried to reimagine the moment, he found himself wondering whether it had actually happened.
‘Are you coming, Anna?’ he heard her father call from the floor below.
‘Do you think he will consent . . . ?’ he whispered. His lips, indeed his whole body, seemed alight with desire.
‘You will have to ask him,’ she smiled back, gathering her skirts for the descent.
EPILOGUE
Those moments, and those of the days that immediately followed, are etched as clearly in Anna’s mind as though they were yesterday. Can it possibly be forty years ago? she wonders.
She looks up from her tapestry to where, on the opposite side of the hearth, Henri is dozing in his favourite chair – once the favourite of the late Jean Lavalle. The way her husband’s head has fallen sideways, the eyes closed and jaw slackened, the hands slumped in h
is lap and yet still keeping a grasp on the newspaper, brings a fond smile to her face. He is an old man now, his face lined and his beard grizzled; that once luxuriant dark hair is greyed and thinning beneath his favourite velvet cap.
We are both growing old, she thinks, scowling at her wrinkled fingers, the roughened skin of her arms, the liver spots on the backs of her hands. She cannot remember how long it is since she troubled to take more than a passing glance at her reflection in the glass, preferring to deceive herself with the memory of how she once was.
The house feels little changed by the passage of time and the many events it has witnessed. Firelight glints off the wooden panelling in just the same way as it did that day, forty years ago; the clock ticks in the corner, the shutters rattle when the wind is in the east and looms thud and clatter in the loft. The sweet, nutty smell of raw silk still pervades the air.
The ground floor remains dedicated to the business – the showroom in the front and their shared office and studio at the back – although their eldest son, Jean, has recently persuaded his father to support the rental of a new ‘manufactory’: three large warehouse rooms on the other side of Brick Lane where the silk is stored, throwsters throw and warps are wound. There is less ‘leakage’ that way, he says.
He is talking about setting up his own looms in the manufactory, too, so that they can meet the requirements of new laws setting weavers’ pay. That way, he says, they will not have to support the costs of weavers working at home, as they will weave at his looms and he can pay them by the piece. ‘It’s so much more efficient, Papa,’ he says. ‘And we can keep a closer eye on quality.’
The business has survived turbulent times. In the face of new import freedoms many, even some of the most successful, foundered, thousands of weavers were put out of work and their families starved. Other companies moved out of London altogether, to avoid paying the rates demanded by the new acts. Henri always claimed that the survival of Lavalle, Vendôme & Sons was entirely due to the extraordinary achievements of their in-house designer.
The princess was not clothed in Henri’s silk for her nuptial celebrations, but it was chosen by one of her ladies-in-waiting, which was enough to catch the eye of the new queen. Herself an amateur botanist, she took the new naturalism to heart and promulgated it widely amongst her acolytes. Straight lines and geometrical patterns were sent into the wilderness as the artist Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty became the benchmark for artistic endeavour. The serpentine curve became de rigeur in fashion, furnishings, furniture and all other decorative arts.
Her paintings have never been hung on walls, as Mr Gainsborough suggested, but for nearly four decades Anna Vendôme’s designs have been worn and highly sought after by society ladies. As the orders flooded in, Henri was compelled to employ more than a hundred weavers to keep up with demand. Their silks were even exported across the Atlantic, to be worn by the wealthy aristocrats of the newly independent United States of America.
The mercers Sadler & Son profited too, becoming one of Henri’s major customers, although they saw little of the family in society. Aunt Sarah finally achieved her lifetime ambition of moving to Ludgate Hill, just along from the Hinchliffes. She is now a grandmother several times over with Lizzie well married into a wealthy family, and William’s two sons following him into the business.
How did I manage to do it all, Anna wonders, while giving birth to seven children, burying four of them and raising the remaining three into adulthood? Mariette fell in love with and married the son of a silversmith whom she met at the French church – they live just a few streets away. She and Anna are like sisters, and supported each other in caring for M. Lavalle and Clothilde – who was eventually persuaded to move into the house when she became too frail to work – as they neared the end of their lives.
Then, just as things were becoming easier, Theodore died suddenly while delivering a sermon in his dear old village church. Just as he would have had it, people said at the funeral, but it was no solace for Anna, who has missed him dearly every day since. Jane came to live with them, and remains with them still, which is great consolation, for she is a dear thing, uncomplicated and undemanding, and has been a wonderful helpmeet with the children.
Throughout all of this sorrow and the heavy demands of domestic life, Anna has always managed to steal a few hours for her painting and designing. She loves to work in the office alongside Henri and their two sons, observing the coming and going of traders and weavers, enjoying and sometimes joining their conversations about trade, money and politics.
Occasionally she will persuade her husband, or one of her children, to accompany her to the new Royal Academy of Arts exhibitions to see Mr Gainsborough’s work, or to the British Museum where she can study and sketch the natural curiosities collected by Sir Hans Sloane. Before he died, Mr Ehret introduced her to the books of botanical studies held in the library there, which have become a constant inspiration for her work. Dear Mr Ehret. In his will he left Anna two of his prints, which hang on the walls of the salon with pride. Whenever she looks at them, she recalls how he taught her to observe line, shading and colour, right down to the tiniest detail. What a great debt I owe the man, she thinks to herself.
She remembers her own vague, unfocused longing on arriving in London, how the appreciation of the fascinating and surprising world all around her only led to greater frustration because, as her aunt would have it, a young lady entering polite society could not be allowed to have an occupation outside the home. She would never have been able to endure spending the rest of her life as an ornament for a conventional husband, but at the time could see no way of avoiding that path.
Despite the unpromising start, she has enjoyed the most wonderful life in this city, she thinks to herself, a life full of family love, and of artistic and intellectual interest. She could not have asked for more.
And it is all on account of one man, the one now sleeping peacefully in his chair on the other side of the hearth. He snores lightly, shifts in his chair and opens his eyes briefly, smiles at her and then falls asleep again. Even after all this time his smile can still ambush her heart, causing it a momentary pause, a contraction of love.
She had known, of course, from the very moment that he rescued her on the street, and he claims that was the moment he knew, too. But she feels sure that, were it not for his moment of drunken foolishness, followed by his arrest and imprisonment, they would now be unhappily married to others. Both acknowledge that Charlotte was the agent of their good fortune, and frequently tease her about it.
As their friendship deepened, and the trust between them became stronger, Anna felt able gently to probe the seamstress about her personal life: how she managed to remain single and run her own independent business. At first she was reticent, but one day, when they had taken a good meal and a few glasses of claret together, Charlotte confided her greatest, most intimate secret.
She was the fourth daughter of a respectable family that had fallen on hard times when their father died prematurely, she said, and had been forced to find herself a job as seamstress to the household of a noble family. Unfortunately the duke had a roving eye, which soon enough settled on the seventeen-year-old Charlotte, and he pressed his attentions upon her so forcibly that she had submitted for fear of losing her job.
A few months later, finding the situation insufferable, she began to resist him, with the inevitable consequence that she was told to leave. Her oldest sister, now married to a country vicar, took her in but, within a few short weeks, it became clear that the duke’s attentions had left an unwanted legacy.
The vicar feared that the scandal could lose him his living, but his wife, who for six years had failed to bear him a child, persuaded him that they could adopt the baby, pretending that it was theirs. Charlotte was sent away for her confinement while her sister wore cushions of ever-increasing size beneath her dresses. Thus it was that Peter – for that was his name – became Charlotte’s ‘nephew’.
�
�He has a better life than I could ever have provided, and I see him every month. Although,’ she added wistfully, ‘I feel our parting each time like the cut of a knife.’
‘Did you never want to marry, so that you could take him back?’
Charlotte paused and poured herself another glass of wine. ‘No, I am happy as I am. I have worked hard to set up my business and if I married, I might have to give it up. Besides, how can I ever trust any man again?’ she said. ‘And how could I take my son away from my sister, when they have loved him as their own for so many years?’
Peter was now grown into a handsome young man with children of his own who frequently visited their ‘great aunt’. Anna, invited to meet them one day, could plainly see the likeness of her friend reflected in their faces, and Charlotte’s pride and happiness in their company was a joy to behold.
To everyone in the family but her father, theirs had seemed such an unlikely match. Anna can still recall the look of utter horror on Aunt Sarah’s face when Henri turned up at Spital Square that morning.
‘Mr Henri Vendôme, madam,’ Betty announced.
‘Tell him he has come to the wrong address. The business entrance is next door,’ her aunt said firmly.
‘No, Aunt, he has come to see Father,’ Anna cried, dropping the book with which she had been trying unsuccessfully to occupy herself for the past half hour. She flew down the stairs to where Henri was waiting on the doorstep, nervously shifting from foot to foot, smart but uncomfortable in his best blue serge, his hair neatly tied back beneath what looked like a new cap. Under his arm was a brown paper parcel containing the silk brocade.
‘Come in, come up,’ she said, beckoning him with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Father knows.’ When they reached the top of the stairs, Theodore was already on the landing. Anna pushed Henri forward and the two men shook hands.
