The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  “Well, what do you think, young Anna?” her uncle prompted. “We pride ourselves on dealing with the very best.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “But where does the silk originally come from? I mean, before it is woven?”

  “Well now, there’s a question!” He pointed to a large square frame hung above the main doorway. A brass plaque announced it to be: The Life Cycle of the Silkworm.

  Inside the case, set out in a circle, were preserved specimens of the insect in its twelve stages, starting at the top with the moth. The moth lives but one day and never flies, read the label. In its short life, its sole purpose is to mate and lay eggs. From these hatch tiny, threadlike caterpillars that do nothing but eat mulberry leaves and multiply many times in size, before spinning hundreds of yards of the finest thread into a cocoon. Most cocoons end up as raw silk—a small hank of which, twisted and tied with a pink ribbon, was displayed inside the case—while others are allowed to hatch into new moths so that the cycle can start all over again.

  She read all of this with growing astonishment. “How extraordinary,” she said. “Where do all these moths and caterpillars live?”

  His great booming laugh continued for several embarrassing seconds. “Dearest Anna, you have much to learn. Do you hear, wife”—he turned to Aunt Sarah—“our niece thinks we have silkworms munching away in the garden!” This was not at all what she had suggested—the notion was clearly ludicrous—but she bit her lip.

  “We do not keep the worms, nor do we spin the thread or weave it, my dear. The raw silk comes by ship from the East, places like Constantinople and China; it is spun and woven here in London.” Anna knew all about wool, which, of course, was shorn from English sheep, and linen, which was produced from the flax that grew in the fields. But she’d never stopped to imagine where silk came from and was astonished to learn that it originated in such exotic lands.

  “My father and his father before him were master weavers, as was I, before I became a mercer,” he went on. “We have silk in the blood.”

  “But where are your looms now?”

  “Long gone, my dear. Haven’t been near a loom or held a shuttle for years. I tired of dealing with journeymen and apprentices—the trade is now so dominated by the French and they can be such a treacherous lot. No, there is more to be made from buying and selling, so when William joined me in the business, we sold the looms and turned to mercery, as you see before you.”

  Behind the door were shelves on which were stacked dozens of leather-bound ledgers. He pulled one of them down, laid it on the table and opened it. “See here, Niece. These are just some of the designs we have supplied to the top people in society.”

  As he turned the pages, she could see that each contained colored drawings on squared paper with, on the opposite side, a list of complex instructions and abbreviations. On some of the pages were pinned clippings of fabric: the silk, she assumed, that had been woven to the painted design.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Sarah and Miss Charlotte had been choosing samples of fabric, laying them out on the other end of the table. “Look, Anna, tell us what you think,” said her aunt. In the light from the window, the silks shimmered before her eyes like a thousand butterfly wings. Anna was so dazzled that she found herself almost unable to distinguish between the various patterns.

  “Come now, you must have a preference,” her aunt prompted. “Or we will have to choose for you.” Anna pointed vaguely in the direction of the colors that she liked to use when painting landscapes: leaf green, sea blue, burnt umber, red ochre. By sheer luck it appeared that she had made the right choice. “Most suitable for a young lady,” Miss Charlotte said approvingly, “and perfectly à la mode.”

  • • •

  Next morning at breakfast Lizzie announced that she wanted to show Anna their church.

  “Do you not think it would be sensible to wait until your cousin can wear one of her new gowns?” said her mother gently. “They should be ready in a day or two.”

  “But it is so hot,” Lizzie whined. “I was indoors at my studies all day yesterday, and I would so love some distraction.”

  “Then go into the garden,” Aunt Sarah said. “It is shady there.”

  “There’s nothing to see or do in the garden, you know that.” The girl turned to her father with a pretty, pleading smile, her head on one side, ringlets bobbing. “Please, Papa. We wouldn’t go far. Just to the church and back again. We won’t say hello to anyone, I promise.”

  Joseph muttered, “Can’t see that any harm could come from it.”

  “Just for a couple of hours, then,” her mother conceded. “And don’t be late for luncheon.”

  Anna was grateful to Lizzie for pleading the case. For two days now she hadn’t taken a single breath of fresh air. At home, she would be out and about every day, collecting eggs and vegetables, walking down the street to the village store for milk and tea, and back along the beach. Besides, the exchange had been most instructive. Joseph was clearly prey to his daughter’s charms and out of loyalty Sarah would not contradict him, in front of the family at least. Anna could see now that her cousin could become an important ally.

  She was certainly pleased to have Lizzie at her side as they stepped out. The streets were just as noisy, bustling, and chaotic as the day she’d arrived.

  “Watch the ground to make sure you don’t step in anything. And don’t catch anyone’s eye—especially the beggars—they’ll only target you,” Lizzie said, leading her briskly between the crowds, crossing the carriageways fearlessly and deftly avoiding the carriages and wagons that appeared with great speed from each direction. At last they came to a junction, and Lizzie pointed down the street ahead. “There it is. Christ Church. It was completed but ten years ago, or twenty, I am not entirely sure. Is it not beautiful?”

  The building was truly awe-inspiring. The spire reached so high that Anna’s neck soon ached from peering upward to the pinnacle; the white stone gleamed almost dazzling white in the sunshine against the blue of the sky above and the dreary gray streets below. As they climbed the wide steps up to its massive pillared portico, she felt very small and humble, as though she were about to enter a palace or somewhere she did not deserve to be.

  They eased open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside. It was blessedly cool and quiet, with that dusty smell of ages that seems to pervade all churches, even new ones.

  Their village church, a wooden-roofed flint-work building with a single nave, much reduced amid the ruins of its medieval origins, could seat just one hundred souls. This one surely must have seated a thousand, perhaps more. Rows of box pews were ranged down the center and side aisles, above which were wooden galleries almost certainly containing yet more benches.

  They appeared to be entirely alone and their footsteps echoed in the soaring, sunlit space. What a splendid reverberation there must be when all these people recite the Lord’s Prayer or intone the psalms, she thought, recalling the timid quaverings of her father’s congregation.

  Lizzie sat at a bench and invited Anna to join her. “What do you think?”

  “I think it is magnificent,” Anna whispered. “More like a cathedral than a church. Do you come every Sunday?”

  The reply was shocking in its honesty: “Oh no, only occasionally,” she said. “Mother comes when she wants to pray for something good to happen, Father comes because it beholds him to be seen here from time to time, he says, and I like to meet my friends here.”

  “And William?”

  “Refuses to come, ever. Says science is his God, whatever that means.”

  “Is that what he meant last night when he said that God was an interesting conjecture?”

  “He talks all kinds of nonsense. I don’t listen to him. He has so many theories; each time he comes back from his club he has a new one. All learned from his cronies, no doubt.”

  “What kind of a club
is it?”

  “From the smell of him I think they do little more than drink port and smoke cigars. He claims it is a mathematical society, but my guess is that their calculations are mostly about gambling odds.” Lizzie stood up suddenly. “Let’s go to the market before it’s too late. Some of the stalls pack up at lunchtime.”

  “But I thought…?”

  “I don’t care what Mother says, and you want to see the flowers, don’t you?”

  • • •

  As they approached the market building Anna became apprehensive.

  “Won’t we become the object of people’s attention?” she whispered. “What if someone sees us and tells your mother?”

  “Dearest Anna, have you not noticed how I am dressed today?” In truth she had not, but now she could see that Lizzie was wearing a plainer gown than usual, and her hair was tied under a simple cotton bonnet, much like her own. “We look like a pair of country lasses, don’t we?” Lizzie chuckled. “No one will take any notice of us. But hold your breath,” she shouted over the hubbub of traders’ cries. “Thank goodness it’s not Friday, for the fish smells even worse then.” Anna kept her eyes lowered, unwilling to look too carefully at the bloody carcasses and dead fowl, the displays of liver and intestines and the decapitated hogs’ heads with their blank eyes and mouths stuffed with apples.

  The smell became sweeter, even fragrant. Here, fruit was piled into pyramids of every hue: apples in a rainbow of varieties from palest yellow to brightest scarlet; thin, green pears as well as round, rosy ones; blushing peaches; deep-ruby plums; aromatic quinces; golden apricots; greengages; mulberries; blackberries and figs; oranges and lemons. Stands of sweet pink rhubarb stood guard at either side. Each stall was an individual work of art, each trader competing for the finest display.

  They passed along a row of vegetable stalls every bit as artistic and colorful as the fruit: salads in all shades of green, cucumbers, leeks, celery, carrots and cauliflower, deep-green curly kale, bright-red tomatoes—never seen in Halesworth market—and towering constructions of cabbages in every shape, size, and color.

  “Why would someone call another person a cabbage head?” she asked, recalling William’s jibe.

  “Don’t say it too loudly. It’s rude,” Lizzie whispered. “Where did you hear it?”

  “Just someone in the street.” This was not a lie, at least.

  “Some people call the French people cabbage heads because they eat a lot of it—it makes them smell, too.”

  “But why are they so unpleasant about the French?”

  “Dearest Coz, you have so much to learn,” Lizzie said, taking her arm. “Half of France is in London these days, although I don’t really understand why they should choose to leave their own country. Many are weavers, good weavers, too, which doesn’t please the English. I suppose people resent them, think they have funny ways.”

  Farther along, they found an aisle of flower stalls. Anna loved to study the wildflowers that grew in the fields and marshes around her village but knew little of garden varieties save those that somehow thrived in their neglected vicarage garden: snowdrops and primroses in spring, delphiniums and roses in summer. At first, the blooms on these stalls appeared exotic and unfamiliar but, as she looked closer, there were among them some that she recognized: lavender, catmint, pinks, lily of the valley, heartsease, auriculas, and sweet peas. She found herself smiling at them, like old friends, their vibrant colors and aromas transporting her back to summer days in the village.

  On their way out, she noticed a wooden staircase in one corner and looked upward to see where it led. Above them, beneath the roof of the market, was a gallery with further stalls. The railings were hung with what looked like pieces of old cloth.

  “Why are they selling rags?” she asked.

  “They’re not rags, silly. They’re clothes.”

  “They’re all torn and dirty.”

  “Oh, Anna. Don’t you know anything? That’s because they are secondhand clothes. But there’s still value in them, so people sell them on.”

  “That’s horrible. To wear clothes others have worn. And not even family.”

  “Some people don’t have the choice. They are not as lucky as we are, to have new clothes. Come, we must hurry back now. Mama will be listening for us with her eye on the clock, counting every second.”

  • • •

  As they turned the corner into Spital Square Anna’s stomach did a small somersault. At the side of the square were two young men sitting on a wall in the shade of a large tree, kicking their heels and laughing at a private joke.

  As they approached, the eyes of one of them widened in recognition, and she saw that his cheek carried a purple bruise. He stood and took off his cap, making a small bow. Long, dark hair fell around his face.

  She could feel Lizzie tugging at her arm, whispering, “Come on, Anna. You must not talk to French boys.”

  “Mam’selle,” he said in that curious accent. “I hope you are now fully recovered?”

  “I am well, sir, thanks to your help. I wanted to apologize…” She gestured in the direction of his cheek. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other. For a fleeting, astonishing second, Anna felt as though she had known this stranger forever.

  “De rien, it was nothing,” the young man said quietly, his gaze falling to the ground.

  Lizzie pulled again at her arm, as Anna racked her brain for something more to say so that she could prolong the moment.

  “May I know your name?” she asked.

  “My name is Henri,” he said. “Henri Vendôme. Silk weaver. À votre service.” He made another small bow.

  “And I am Anna,” she said. “Miss Anna Butterfield. And once more, thank you for your kindness.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said. “Au revoir, Miss Butterfield.”

  She allowed herself to be dragged away. So he was a French silk weaver. His eyes might have sparkled with mischief, but he did not look at all likely to demonstrate or be violent. The very opposite, in fact.

  “Whatever were you thinking, talking to a stranger like that?” her cousin chided.

  “He helped me when I fainted the other day. It would have been discourteous not to stop and thank him.”

  “It would have been wiser not to have done so.” Lizzie looked around furtively. “Let us pray we were not observed. It would cause such a scandal.”

  3

  Make industry a part of your character as early as possible: Be officiously serviceable to your Master on all occasions: if possible prevent his commands, understand a nod, a look, and do rather more than is required of you, than less than is your duty.

  —Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate, 1760

  As the girls disappeared around the corner, Guy began to dance around his friend making squelchy kissing noises and jerking his hips suggestively.

  “Tais-toi, crapaud.” Henri chased him and punched him sharply on the arm.

  “Pourquoi?” Guy said, punching him back. “Elle est belle, non, la jeune Anglaise? Another addition to your crowd of adoring admirers?”

  “Ça n’a pas d’importance, idiot. I helped her, nothing more.” Henri walked away, struggling to persuade himself that this was true. In fact, he had not stopped thinking about her since that first encounter.

  Her name was Anna, niece of the mercer Joseph Sadler; that much he knew from his bruising encounter with her cousin William just a few days ago. One piece of the riddle was in place. But the rest of her was a puzzle. She dressed as a maid but spoke like a lady. Unlike most Englishwomen of her class, she had been polite enough to acknowledge and thank him and would have talked for longer, he reckoned, had the younger girl not been nagging her. She was tall—almost as tall as himself—skinny and not, at first glance, especially pretty, with all those freckles an
d eyes that seemed undecided as to whether to be blue or green. In fact, there was little remarkable about her, and yet he could not put her from his mind. She appeared demure and modest, even though she came from a family he’d heard were ruthlessly ambitious and the most snobbish social climbers of the area.

  “Jumped-up weaver, nothing more than the rest of us, that Mr. Sadler,” Monsieur Lavalle had grumbled one day, on returning from delivering some silks to the Spital Square establishment. “Just because he’s got a few dukes and duchesses wearing his stuffs.”

  Henri never discovered quite why M. Lavalle, normally a peaceable man, should have been moved to speak so strongly against the mercer. He imagined there had been some snub about the quality of the silk he’d been offering to Mr. Sadler, or perhaps he suspected that the mercer was importing foreign fabrics. But it wasn’t one’s place, as a journeyman, to question your master.

  “Pas si vite, Henri. Why such a rush?” Guy called, running to catch up. “We still have fifteen minutes.”

  “I must hurry back,” Henri said. “I was only sent to deliver the lustrings to Shelleys. I still have two feet of the damask to weave by dusk.”

  “Surely you don’t need light to weave your miracles.”

  Henri’s cheeks colored. At the time he’d been so delighted by M. Lavalle’s compliment that he had unwisely repeated it to Guy. Now it seemed he would never live it down.

  “It’s such a dark purple it’s impossible to see dropped threads by candlelight, and it’s got to be ready first thing in the morning. See you tomorrow?”

  “À demain. Shall we return to meet your new English sweetheart again? Or will it be the one you were lusting after last week?”