by Liz Trenow
There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in his words and, as no one was sure how to respond, silence descended on the room. Eventually Guy ventured: “Have you further news?”
“I’ve learned what was also on the agenda for the Court of Assistants this morning,” M. Lavalle said, reaching for his clay pipe and charging it carefully with a pinch of his favorite twist.
“And that was?”
“A report into the increase in smuggled French silks over the past six months,” he said. “It seems that more and more mercers are prepared to evade import duties in order to turn a quick profit, and at this rate there will be no work for masters, let alone journeymen, in this country.”
“Which mercers are they? We should demonstrate.”
“Demonstrations lead to violence, as you know only too well, Guy,” M. Lavalle chided. “And violence achieves nothing. What we need is for the law to be upheld.”
“Why is French silk so much in demand when our silks are just as good?” Mariette asked.
“Your guess is as good as anyone’s,” her father replied. “People suspect that it is all the more desirable precisely because it is restricted.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, I admit, but such are the whims of the wealthy. Anything rare or hard to buy is especially prized, whatever the quality.”
“What are the Weavers’ Company doing to stop it?” Henri asked.
“They refused to name names but I believe they suspect who are the worst culprits and may send inspectors. It’s an unpleasant task and will cost the Company good money, but it is worth it if they can get a few convictions to deter others.”
“The sooner the better,” Guy muttered. “They are destroying us, les salauds.”
• • •
As Henri went to the door to say good-bye to his friend, Guy gave a crude wink. “La petite Mariette, she’s growing prettier by the day.”
Henri put his finger to his lips, closing the door.
“She’s all eyes for you, my friend, you have to admit it. You could be in there in a flash.” He pumped an index finger through a circle of fingers and thumb.
“Silence, sac à vin. She is the innocent daughter of a man whom I esteem as a father. I will not have you talking of her like that.”
“Touched a nerve, have I? Remind me not to mention la belle Mariette, the nun of Wood Street, ever again.” Guy started down the steps. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he added, turning back. “Talking of pretty girls, guess who I saw the other day?”
“By your own account there are so many women desperate for your charming company, I cannot for the life of me think.”
“Not one of mine, one of yours.”
“And who is that, then?” It would be the sugared-almond seller, he felt sure. He’d managed to avoid her for nearly ten days now.
“The English girl you rescued in the street a few weeks ago. What was her name?”
“Anna,” Henri said a little too quickly.
“Aha! So you remember her well, my friend,” Guy chortled, delighted. “Yes indeed, the fair Anna. She was in a carriage that stopped right beside me on the street. She seemed to recognize me, and I tried to wave, but it moved on.”
Henri forgot to pretend that he was not intrigued. “A carriage? Did she look well? Was she alone?”
“She looked délicieuse, my friend, dressed up to the nines, in one of those milkmaid’s bonnets that are all the rage. She was with her fat aunt, the wife of that two-faced mercer Sadler, en route to show her off at some society tea party, I don’t doubt. They’ll have her wed to some rich bastard before you can say ‘private income.’”
“Two-faced?”
“I’ll wager you half a livre that he’s one of the mercers M. Lavalle was talking about, my friend. He’s got it coming to him.”
Watching him walk away, Henri noticed a new arrogant swagger to his friend’s stride. Hopefully, once the Book of Prices was distributed and the masters were obliged to pay fair rates, he would settle down and get on with making a living, instead of complaining all the time.
Guy’s barbed comments about the English girl pained him. She had seemed so straightforward, with none of the airs and graces most girls seemed to have. Still, she was far beyond his reach, so he may as well stop thinking about her.
Which was more easily said than done.
6
Never sit gazing curiously around the room when paying a call, as if taking a mental inventory of the furniture. It is excessively rude.
—The Lady’s Book of Manners
Anna gazed up at the enormous space above their heads, the soaring columns stretching vertiginously upward to support rows of barrel vaults on either side. The ceiling, of ornate, white plasterwork with gold-painted decoration at every corner, was even taller; she found herself wondering how they had ever managed to construct it at such a height.
The whole effect, light-filled and—she struggled to find the right word—numinous, that was it, was perfectly designed to make you feel as though you were in the presence of something greater than yourself. Her father had once used the word to describe his own church at certain times of year, when the rays of the setting sun would reach through the west window, suffusing the altar with a warm glow.
“You don’t need prayers and hymns to summon up spirituality when it’s like this,” he used to say. “That sunset is doing me out of a job.”
She understood exactly what he meant. Although she struggled to believe in the existence of God, she could always find solace in nature: the rising and setting of the sun, the light of the moon, the shape of a leaf, or the sound of the dawn chorus.
The minister droned on, his words almost indecipherable as they reverberated through the huge space.
The format of the service was recognizable but curiously different; she suspected that Christ Church was “higher” than her father’s deliberately modest approach to worship. But the sound of the organ—so much more powerful than any she had previously heard, save for the time they had visited Norwich—was utterly thrilling, filling the church with muscular chords that seemed to vibrate through her body. The organist appeared to have perfect mastery of the lofty golden pipes hidden inside the carved-wood casing high above the entrance porch at the west end of the church.
She’d been delighted to discover that she knew most of the hymns and, emboldened by the mighty sounds of the organ, sang out with the strong soprano voice she’d developed from leading the church choir at home. Halfway through the first hymn, she noticed that Aunt Sarah and Lizzie, flanking her on either side, were barely audible. Were they such infrequent churchgoers that they were simply unfamiliar with the tunes? Perhaps it simply wasn’t seemly to sing so loudly? She toned herself down to a whisper, listening to the choir and wishing that she could be among them.
Aunt Sarah had regarded her with barely concealed astonishment the previous evening when she’d expressed her desire to attend Sunday service.
“Is tomorrow a special day?”
“No, nothing special.” All she really wanted was an excuse to get out of the house.
“Of course, you would have been required to attend every Sunday at home, you poor dears,” Sarah said. “I don’t suppose it’s very comfortable, that drafty, old village church your father runs. He used to write of how your mother found it hard to tolerate the cold. Never mind, we shall take you to Christ Church tomorrow, won’t we, Lizzie? It’s all so very beautiful, and”—her face brightened at the prospect—“many well-connected people attend.”
Uncle Joseph and William, having awkwardly agreed “to keep the ladies company,” had subsequently discovered important reasons why they were unable to do so. So here they were, the three women of the family, all dressed up in their Sunday best. Anna had chosen her most modest gown—the blue damask—but even so had been obliged to borrow a shawl from Lizzie to cover up the wi
de expanse of décolletage. On her head she wore her new milkmaid’s hat.
Aunt Sarah had insisted on powdering Anna’s forehead, nose, and chin, and then rouging her cheeks and lips. After so much primping, Anna felt more appropriately dressed for a trip to the theater or the music hall than for church.
Now, strategically placed in a row halfway back from the altar—“so we can get a good view of the important people in their boxes,” her aunt had whispered—Anna was able to peer discreetly at the other worshippers. When the minister quoted the passage from Matthew about it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God, she reflected wryly that few around her were likely to end up in heaven. If he’s looking down at us, he’ll have an amused smile on his face, she thought. Everyone seemed so overdressed for Sunday worship, adorned in such fine silks, satins and lace, wigs and bonnets that she began to appreciate what kept so many weavers, mercers, dressmakers, and drapers in business.
Her mind wandered back to the tea party at the Hinchliffes’ two days before. It had not been a comfortable experience. Even before they arrived she’d found herself unsettled by the glimpse of Henri’s friend Guy in the mob shouting for “fair pay,” and after that, all the way to Ludgate Hill, her aunt had chattered endlessly about the Hinchliffe family, until Anna began to feel quite uneasy about meeting the people with whom her aunt was so obviously entranced.
In the space of the fifteen-minute journey she learned that Mr. H. was a highly successful mercer who frequently supplied fabrics for lords and ladies, bishops and Members of Parliament, and even, on one memorable occasion, the old king’s mistress, the Countess of Yarmouth; that, as William had vulgarly explained, he had “married well” to a woman of considerable means in her own right, and that his success was due, at least in part, to his wife’s family associations; that their elder son, Alfred, had joined the family firm and had married equally well; that the younger son, Charlie—“the same age as my William, and they are such good friends”—was “an extremely eligible young man” currently studying for the law; and that their daughter, Susannah, who must be seventeen years by now—“my, how the time passes”—was already so highly accomplished on the harpsichord that people came from “literally miles around” to hear her, and Mrs. H. had high hopes she might be presented at court next year.
“She’s such a sweet, young thing. You are similar in years, dear Niece, so I am perfectly certain you and Susannah will become the very best of friends.”
But Anna had stopped listening, because their carriage had passed into the shadow of an enormous structure, the largest building she had ever seen. Even by tilting her head, she could not see the top of its tall towers, and it seemed to take an age for the carriage to pass its immense length.
“My goodness, whatever is that?”
“Saint Paul’s,” her aunt said impatiently. “You really must listen to what I am telling you, dearest Niece, so that you are fully prepared for your introduction to the family.”
She had heard of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, had learned from one of her father’s books about how it had been rebuilt to a grand new design by the famous architect Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire, and read in the newspaper that the famous Italian artist Canaletto had lately come to London to paint it, but had never imagined that she might see it for herself. Nothing could have prepared her for its massive bulk of glistening stone towering over the city street. Christ Church had been impressive enough, but this was in another league altogether.
“Sorry, Aunt, please go on. I really am listening,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the extraordinary sight.
Shortly after this they drew to a halt at their destination: a fine four-square building with wrought-iron gates. It was a world away from any house she’d ever visited before. Instead of whitewashed walls or wooden paneling, the walls of the hallway were covered in pink-and-white-striated marble, the floor a checkerboard of black and white tiles. The “morning room” was deeply carpeted, its walls covered and furniture upholstered in opulent shades of green and blue silk damask.
Mrs. Augusta Hinchliffe, a tall, horsey-faced woman with a prominent nose, artfully concealed her lack of natural beauty by the application of makeup and the distraction of an ornate confection of hair on top of her head. By some happy miracle the daughter, Susannah, had failed to inherit the maternal nose and was, as Aunt Sarah had described her, a “sweet, little thing” who seemed, both physically and in personality, completely overshadowed by the forceful presence of her mother.
After the formality of introductions and the taking of chairs as directed by their hostess, two maids in immaculately starched uniforms appeared with teapots and plates of tiny saffron biscuits, and began pouring the tea into porcelain cups with handles so delicate that Anna feared to grip hers too tightly in case it shattered between her fingers.
“How do you find our great city?” Mrs. H. asked her. “It must seem very exciting after your quiet life in the countryside?”
“I like it very well, thank you, ma’am.”
“And I am sure you have already been introduced to many interesting people since you arrived? Your dearest aunt and uncle are so well respected in their community.”
“Indeed she has,” Aunt Sarah jumped in before Anna could reply. In truth she had met barely anyone outside of the family, with the exception of Henri and Guy, who would surely fall outside Mrs. H.’s category of “interesting.”
“Charles will be joining us very soon,” Mrs. H. went on. “He is such a good friend of your cousin William, as you know.” Although the prospect made her nervous, Anna couldn’t help being intrigued by this “man about town” who bet on the horses and lived “for the moment.” He sounded lively, if rather raffish, and likely to be quite entertaining.
Mrs. H. began to recount how the family would be going to Bath for the whole of August to escape the heat of the city, and their plans for introducing Susannah into society. Aunt Sarah nodded along, apparently admiring every pronouncement and endorsing every opinion the other woman expressed. But it was when Augusta mentioned Thomas Gainsborough, the society portraitist who currently lived in Bath, from whom they were considering commissioning a portrait of Mr. Hinchliffe as Upper Bailiff of the Worshipful Company of Mercers, that Sarah’s smile seemed to tighten into a grimace of burning envy. A couple of days ago, Anna had heard her aunt mention the notion of going to Bath and Joseph’s response: “Absolutely not, Sarah, do you think we are made of money?”
Fortunately, the conversation turned to the Mercers’ annual dinner in September, who else was likely to be there, and who would be organizing the seating plan for the tables. The way they examined and dissected the subject, it seemed that one’s entire future could be defined by the people with whom you shared company for a single evening.
Anna turned to the daughter, who had barely spoken a word. “I am so pleased to meet you, Susannah. My aunt tells me you are a very fine musician.”
“I play a little,” the girl whispered, her eyes to the floor. “The harpsichord, mostly.”
“You must play for me sometime.”
Susannah nodded, and an awkward silence fell between them.
“And are you musical, Anna?” Mrs. H. interjected.
“I play the pianoforte and on occasion the small chamber organ in church, but very poorly,” she replied, praying that she would not be invited to perform. “My real love is for painting.”
“She has made a very fair representation of our Lizzie,” Aunt Sarah said. Anna blushed. The portrait she’d painted for fun was truly dreadful but, to her great embarrassment, her cousin had insisted on showing it to her parents.
“I prefer to paint natural things, trees and flowers,” she replied.
“I must show you our garden, dear Anna,” Mrs. H. said, waving her hand in the direction of the french windows. “We do love
our flower borders. We have lately made the acquaintance of a famous botanist, a German fellow called Georg Ehret, who lives in London these days. Mr. Hinchliffe recently made the purchase of that print.” She pointed to the wall behind Anna. “We hope it will be the first of many.”
It was a curious composition: a showy, pink-flowered Christmas rose with dark, serrated leaves overshadowing a modest, yellow winter aconite. Above hovered a peacock butterfly, surely the most unlikely sight, Anna considered, in early springtime when those two plants would be flowering.
But it was not the curious composition that thrilled her; it was the draftsmanship. Each part of the plants had been represented so realistically that she could almost feel them between her fingers: the rough edges of the hellebore leaves, the delicate yellow stamens, the veins of the petals. At last, she thought, someone who shared her joy of drawing plants.
Her musing was interrupted by the entry of a very tall, thin-faced young man in a royal-blue silk damask topcoat and powdered wig.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, making a formal half bow. “I hope you will permit me to join you?” His long nose was unmistakably inherited from his mother.
“Charles! How delightful to see you again,” Aunt Sarah said, offering her hand. “Do please meet my niece, Anna Butterfield, lately come to the city from Suffolk.”
“Enchanted, Miss Butterfield,” he said with a smile that seemed to soften the severity of his features. “William has told me of your arrival. I do hope you find our great city to your liking?”
“Please sit down, Charlie,” his mother urged. “You make me feel uncomfortable, looming over us like that.”
His mother poured a cup of tea and offered him a biscuit—he took two—as he responded politely to Aunt Sarah’s inquiries about his legal studies. He turned to Anna, saying he now regretted very much that the family would shortly be leaving the city for the summer but, since he and William were such good friends, he was sure they would soon have the opportunity to become better acquainted in the autumn.
