The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  —Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate

  The sound of Guy’s distinctive whistle from the street below pierced through the busy clack of looms, the hubbub of the street, the draymen’s calls, the barking of dogs, and the song of caged birds.

  Henri put down his shuttle and went to peer out of the loft window.

  Guy gestured energetically. “Come down. I need to tell you something.”

  “I’m right in the middle of a figure. Can it not wait until this evening?” Henri shouted, exasperated.

  “No, it’s about this evening. C’est très important. Come down. Juste une minute.”

  “Bon Dieu, what is it now?” Henri muttered. Telling the drawboy to take a break and get a drink of water, he took off his shoes and tiptoed as quietly as possible down the wooden ladder so as not to disturb M. Lavalle, who was sweating over his accounts in the downstairs office. His master might generally be lenient, but Henri didn’t like to take liberties.

  His friend was pacing the pavement, unshaven, long hair pulling free from its loose plait and flailing around his face. Guy was always behind with his rent and sometimes earning barely enough to feed himself, Henri knew.

  “What’s so urgent? Are you not well?”

  “Never better, mon vieux.” Guy lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Listen, it’s good news. We’ve written a Book of Prices, you know, set down rates for every kind of work, and we’re going to get it printed and give a copy to every master in the area, to make them pay a fair wage for a change. We’re pretty sure the Company will back us this time. There’s a meeting this evening. You must come.” He twisted his felt hat fiercely between his fists.

  Henri sighed. “I’m way behind, Guy.”

  “It will take only half an hour. Every signature is really important if the Company is to agree it. You have to come.”

  “Where is it, then, this meeting?”

  “The Dolphin, Bethnal Green. There’s a room on the second floor they’re letting us use.”

  “It’s not that calico chasing lot, none of that? I can’t afford to get caught up in any protests.” The growing taste for printed calico was bad news for the silk trade and, the previous year, Guy had had a near escape when out with a gang of older weavers who’d thrown aqua fortis onto the cotton dresses of society ladies. Two had been arrested and one was hanged.

  “Nothing like that. It’s only to sign a petition so that we can get official backing for the Book,” Guy said, squeezing Henri’s arm urgently. “C’est légal. Fais-moi confiance. Go in by the side door and up the stairs. I’ll be there. Promise me you will come.”

  • • •

  At seven o’clock Henri nervously climbed the rough wooden stairs and entered a dark room packed with men huddled around a central table in the light of a single candle. Their gaunt, desperate faces and the stink of unwashed poverty reminded him why he was here. His signature was a small thing to offer if it helped to alleviate their troubles.

  M. Lavalle had been supportive when Henri had told him where he was going. “I’ve heard of this Book,” he said. “It is probably a reasonable way of trying to keep the peace, so long as the weavers do not set their expectations too high. They have to accept that this is a volatile market, and the fluctuations have to be borne by us all.”

  “You do not mind if I add my signature to the petition?”

  “So long as that is all you do, my boy.” M. Lavalle had given him a fierce look over his spectacles. “Beware of becoming involved in any march or other actions of protest. It is too risky at a time like this, when you are on the brink of gaining your Freedom.”

  “Ne vous inquiétez pas, I will take care,” Henri had said.

  He spied Guy in the shadows at the edge of the room and pushed his way through the crowd toward him.

  “Merveilleux, you are here!” Guy embraced him forcefully, then shouted, “Friends, this is mon cher ami Henri Vendôme, journeyman working for the esteemed M. Lavalle, hoping soon to gain his own mastership. He is here to sign the petition.”

  Several dozen faces turned to look. M. Lavalle was well known, and his reputation high among both customers and weavers.

  Guy took his elbow and steered him through the throng to the table. “Read this.” He pulled forward a thick wedge of manuscript paper, roughly bound with string. Beside it was a separate single sheet. “Then make your signature here.”

  To the Upper Bailiff and Assistants of the Worshipful Company of Weavers,

  Please be informed that, in seeking a Peaceable Manner in which to resolve the Current Difficulties, we, the undersigned, do beg your Agreement and Support in the Publication of the attached Book of Prices, being a list of the Prices agreed to be paid for Making the different kinds of Work in the various Branches of the Weaving Manufactory.

  The main document was around forty pages of close-lined script in columns laying out the prices for every conceivable type of silk under the many specialisms of weaving: the two main groups, the Black Branch and the Fancy Branch, followed by the Persians, the Sarsnets, Drugget-Modes, Fringed and Italian handkerchiefs, Cyprus and Draft Gauzes, and Plain Nets. It was a work of enormous detail and must have taken many days and many heads to agree and many hands to write down. Glancing through it to check the weaves with which he was familiar, Henri thought the prices seemed reasonable.

  He took up the quill, dipped it into the inkpot, and signed.

  • • •

  Later that evening, after a meal of cheese with shredded, buttered cabbage and some new season’s potatoes, Henri asked M. Lavalle if he could spare a few minutes to look at the design for his master piece.

  He had been working on it for several weeks, and his master’s opinion was critical. Technically the design was good, he knew, although possibly rather too complicated. He’d been so keen to demonstrate his weaving prowess that he had incorporated as many complex techniques as he could. But it was the aesthetic aspect with which Henri was less confident; he sensed, without knowing quite how, that it fell short of his ambition.

  On a table by the window he set out his sketches of flowers, leaves, swags, and ribbons, and pieced together in order the several sections of point paper with its tiny squares that he had meticulously painted with watercolors and a fine brush, showing how the design would translate into woven fabric. Then he handed his master the handwritten pages describing how the warps, wefts, and simples should be set up on the loom.

  He tried not to fidget as M. Lavalle read in silence, occasionally lifting his head and checking the point-paper design. Finally, the old man finished reading, straightened his back, removed his velvet cap, and brushed back his thinning hair.

  “Well, boy,” he said, “I am impressed. Technically it would be a fine piece of craftsmanship, well beyond anything normally expected from someone of your experience. I know how capable you are, but might it not be better to make something simpler, easier to set up, quicker to weave, less likely to go wrong?”

  Henri shrugged, suddenly deflated. “I wanted to create something unusual, something really eye-catching.”

  “A few years ago the mercers would have been fighting each other for it.”

  “A few years ago?”

  “When rococo was all the rage; the bolder and more ornate the design, the better. These days the ladies are after a much lighter touch. The new naïf, you know, simplicity, realism, delicate elegance.”

  Henri felt the ground shifting beneath him. From the start of his apprenticeship, he’d always admired the large, colorful designs of the famous masters of the day, such as James Leman and his father, Peter. He realized now what a fool he’d been; fashions had moved on and he hadn’t even noticed.

  “Why do you think I prefer to weave damasks, plain silks and satins? They might not pay so well, but they are a lot less t
rouble because the designs don’t change with every season,” M. Lavalle went on. “Take a look at what society ladies are wearing these days, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Henri shrugged his shoulders again. It all seemed so unfathomable.

  “Anyway,” M. Lavalle said, folding up the point papers and setting them with the sketches in a neat pile on the table. “You will do what you think best. You are a very talented weaver and I would have no hesitation in recommending your Freedom, here and now. Almost any of the designs you have woven in the past year would prove you are technically capable. But if you really want your master piece to establish your reputation and set you on your way to a fortune, then you may have to give it some more thought.”

  • • •

  Mariette looked up from her sewing as they entered the parlor. “What did you think, Papa? Will Henri’s piece be a sensation?”

  “I will allow him to speak for himself,” M. Lavalle said, jamming his hat onto his head and making for the front door with his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I’m going for some air before we lock up.”

  Henri looked into Mariette’s sweet, expectant face. He knew how much she admired him, like an older brother, but these days he had a vague and growing sense of a new kind of intimacy in the way that she responded to him: the teasing smile she sometimes wore, the way she cocked her head, the sideways glance of her eyes.

  These subtle changes disturbed him. Mariette was still a child, growing prettier by the day, this was true, but in his eyes nothing more than a cherished and sometimes annoying younger sister. He felt sure that, in time, M. Lavalle would be seeking a good match for his daughter, the son of a wealthy and well-established weaver or mercer, perhaps, who could expect to inherit the business.

  “Well?” she said.

  He sighed, trying to find a way of telling her without betraying the fact that he felt totally dejected.

  “Surely it is not that bad?”

  “No, not at all,” he said quickly. “Your father says…” He hesitated and then tried again. “He says it’s technically good, but I think the design is old-fashioned.”

  “That is a certainly a problem.”

  “What I really need is someone who can predict next season’s fashions.”

  She laughed. “You’ll need a soothsayer, then. No one can predict the whims of fashion.”

  “Then who decides what society ladies will wear?” he said, shaking his head. “It is so confusing. How does anyone work it out? Surely they cannot just imagine it out of nowhere.”

  “I suppose there are people of influence who come up with the ideas in the first place, and then everyone else follows them,” she said.

  “And who are these people of influence?”

  “Mercers, designers, people in the trade…” She trailed off. Then, after a moment, she gave a small yelp. “That’s it. I know just the person!”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Miss Charlotte. She was a friend of Maman’s and she made my Confirmation gown but I have not seen her much of late,” Mariette gabbled. “She lives in Draper’s Lane.”

  “But I cannot afford to pay for her advice.”

  “I will ask her,” Mariette said, putting her hand on his arm with a confidential smile. “As a favor for a special friend.”

  • • •

  Next evening after supper, Henri walked to Draper’s Lane and stopped outside the shop: Miss Charlotte Amesbury, Costumière. After ensuring that no one was watching, he peered through the small windowpanes at the models inside.

  As he studied the lustrous drapery and elegant finishing of the gowns, the delicate designs of the fabrics with their lifelike flowers and leaves and their swirls of fine ribbons against backgrounds of cream or pastel damask, he realized with a sense of growing despondency that he must have spent the past ten years in a kind of dream. Why had he not, until now, taken more notice of the designs that fashionable people were wearing? He had been so keen to master the technical complexities of his craft that he had entirely forgotten the real reason why people love silk: it makes the wearer both look and feel beautiful.

  He became aware of a pair of bright eyes peering back through the window. A slight, dark-haired woman was beckoning to him, indicating that he should come into the shop. He shook his head, but it was too late: she was at the doorway.

  “Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

  “I was just looking,” he muttered.

  “Anything in particular? Perhaps something for yourself? For a special occasion? I have some beautiful silk brocade waistcoats which would look well on a fine young gentleman like you.”

  He knew it was just sales talk but he hesitated, intrigued by the bold, straightforward approach of this young woman and flattered that she would even consider that he might have the means to buy himself a silk waistcoat. She seized on his hesitation.

  “Why not come in for a moment? I can show you some designs you might like to consider, with no obligation whatsoever. You will never know, unless you see them for yourself.”

  Once inside, she drew from the shelves several waistcoats in the most stunning colors and designs of brocade that he’d ever seen, laying them out across the counter and smoothing them with a fond hand, as though they were her children. She led him to a long mirror on a stand and held up one of the waistcoats against his chest.

  “How the bright colors emphasize your dark looks, sir.” She spoke with such certainty, as if she truly believed he was the sort of person who might wear such a thing, and not a lowly French journeyman in scruffy linen breeches and serge waistcoat.

  “Madam, I must be honest with you,” he said at last. “I cannot afford a waistcoat as fine as these. Please let me introduce myself. I am Henri Vendôme, journeyman weaver. My master’s daughter, Mariette Lavalle, mentioned your name and said you might be able to help.”

  The professional mask broke into a genuinely warm smile. “I wondered as much,” she said, producing from her pocket a note. “Mariette wrote to me this morning. You are most welcome, M. Vendôme. She clearly thinks highly of you. How is the family faring? I have not seen them since her mother was so untimely taken.”

  “They are well, thank you. Mariette is growing up now—she is nearly sixteen.”

  “How the time passes. Now, how can I help you?”

  As he explained his desire to find a fashionable design for his master piece that would help to establish his reputation, her pale cheeks colored. “I am flattered that you consider me qualified to advise you. I am only a seamstress but will do my best.” She led him to the dressmaker’s dummies he’d spied through the window. “What do you see?”

  “I see a very fine silk damask in the most delicate, pale yellows and greens,” he said, feeling the quality between his fingers. “Are these the latest colors?”

  “Indeed they are, but what about this one?” She indicated the third gown.

  “I see a colored floral brocade on a deep-cream damask ground weave,” he said.

  “And the design?”

  “I see flowers…”

  “What kind of flowers?” she pressed.

  “Simple ones, such as one might see in a garden or in the fields.”

  “You’re getting the idea, M. Vendôme. The new designs are lifelike, not stylized as in the past. Rococo is gone; naturalism is the new style.” She ran her finger over the delicately woven daisies and harebells. “You see how small the designs are, just life-sized or less? A few years ago the fashion was all about exaggeration. The bigger the better, with giant flowers: roses the size of peonies and peonies the size of cabbages. Ugh!”

  She reached over the counter for a bonnet and placed it on her head at a jaunty angle, pulling the ribbons beneath her chin so that the brim curved either side to frame her face. “What do you see now?”

  “A straw bonnet?”

>   “Who wears this kind of bonnet?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s a countrywoman’s bonnet, of the style frequently worn by milkmaids. Young society ladies cannot get enough of them. Imagine, rich folk pretending to be poor milkmaids? It’s silly, of course, but all fashion is playful, and that is part of its charm.”

  In just five minutes, Miss Charlotte had opened his eyes to an entirely new understanding. He thanked her warmly, promising to give her regards to M. Lavalle and Mariette, and walked back to Wood Street with his head spinning in an unsettling combination of uncertainty and excitement. One thing was now quite clear: the design for his master piece would be very different from the one on which he had been working.

  But how and where he would find that new design, he had no idea.

  • • •

  Four days later Guy arrived just as Henri, Mariette, and M. Lavalle were enjoying coffee and honeyed oat cake in the parlor after supper. They offered him a square of cake, which he ate hungrily in two bites. M. Lavalle invited him to have a seat and join them in taking coffee, but Guy remained standing, restlessly shifting from one leg to the other.

  “What news of the Book, lad?” M. Lavalle asked.

  “The petition worked, sir. The Weaver’s Company Court of Assistants met last night and gave it their endorsement. Now it is going off to the printers. You’ll be getting your copy very soon.”

  “I shall cherish it,” M. Lavalle said. “It shall take pride of place on the shelf next to the Bible, and we will read from it every night before dining.”

  “Don’t tease him, Papa,” Mariette said. “It is a serious matter, this Book, is it not? Oh, do sit down Guy, and have another piece of cake. You are making me nervous with your jiggling.”

  “Apologies, Miss Mariette,” Guy said, perching on a chair and reaching for the plate. “It is indeed a matter of life or starvation for us journeymen,” he went on. “Not all masters are as scrupulous as you, honored sir.”

  “I am well aware of it, my boy,” M. Lavalle said. “And, sadly, neither are all mercers.”