by Liz Trenow
Henri could take no satisfaction from the boy’s childish pleasure, sullied as it was by the guilt he felt at having spent M. Lavalle’s money on the English girl’s sketch without prior permission. The breeches had been the cheapest he could find—only nine pence—and now he faced the dilemma of how to own up about the other sixpence. He had no money of his own to repay the debt—having given all of the fee from his labors in the organ loft to pay his mother’s rent—but fully intended to do so just as soon as he was able to earn it.
On his return M. Lavalle had been engaged with a customer, so he’d simply handed back the purse without having to explain. It crossed his mind, fleetingly, that he could claim the breeches cost a shilling and thruppence, but his master would then think him a fool for paying so much. The problem gnawed at him for the rest of the morning, but the magic he’d felt while watching the English girl was still wrapped around his heart. He didn’t want to share that with anyone, at least for the moment.
Before lunch, he went to his box room and carefully took out the piece of paper from under his shirt, where it had been tucked all morning. The enchantment was still there—the delicate fronds of leaves, the curled petals, the curving stems—and his heart began to race all over again as he imagined them translated into a fabric design. He would make a start on marking up and painting in the point paper this very evening, after supper. Then he could show M. Lavalle the sketch and the design, and it would be an easier task to persuade him that the sixpence had been well spent.
In the end, the decision was taken from him. At lunchtime, M. Lavalle invited the drawboy to show him his new breeches, slapped him on the backside approvingly, and said, “They should last you until you are a man.” Then he turned to Henri, in a perfectly casual way, and asked how much they had cost.
“Nine pence, sir.” Henri’s appetite suddenly disappeared. “They were the cheapest I could find.”
“Then, if I am not mistaken, there is a further sixpence to account for.”
Henri took another bite of bread, giving himself time to think. “May I speak with you in private, after lunch?”
M. Lavalle nodded assent, but Henri could sense the question hanging over the table like a cloud for the rest of the meal. Even Mariette seemed to have nothing to say. At last, it was finished and the others dismissed.
“Well, boy? Where is my missing sixpence?”
“Please forgive me for spending your money without permission, Master. I will repay it just as soon as I can—when I get another request to be organ blower.”
“I have never questioned your honnêteté, tu sais. But I need an explanation.”
Henri took a deep breath and began. “I have been thinking much since our discussion about my design. Mariette suggested I should ask the dressmaker Miss Charlotte Amesbury, whom I think you know?” M. Lavalle nodded. Henri hurried on. “She showed me how the newest vogue is for realistic-looking representations of natural forms, flowers, leaves, and so on.”
“Indeed. Fashions change with the wind these days, as I have said before, but that is certainly the way they are blowing right now.”
“So I decided to start again, change my design to something more fashionable. The problem is finding a designer to help me.”
“You won’t buy much of a designer’s time for sixpence. You know this, do you not?”
Henri reached inside his shirt and pulled out the sketch paper. “But I have something which I believe may make a good start.”
M. Lavalle unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table. Two long minutes passed, as the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to grow louder and louder.
At last, the old man looked up. “Am I to take it that this is what you spent my sixpence on?”
Henri nodded.
“And may I ask who sold it to you?”
He struggled to find the right words to explain, with M. Lavalle having to ask him to start again several times: how he had seen a girl drawing beside the flower stall, how she had given it as a gift for the trader who didn’t want it, and how he had offered sixpence to save it from being torn up. He omitted to identify the girl or mention that he already knew her, albeit only slightly, or that she was the niece of the despised merchant Sadler. There was no point in complicating matters for the moment.
“Did the girl give her name?”
“I would know her again,” Henri replied, trying to avoid a lie. “But why does this matter, sir? Since I paid for the drawing, it is surely mine?”
“Of course it matters,” M. Lavalle spluttered. “You may have paid for her sketch, but you have not paid for the right to reproduce it in cloth. If you hope to get the fabric commissioned and widely distributed, do you imagine that she will not recognize it and wonder how you came by it?”
Henri shook his head, crestfallen. “Of course, you are right. I will have to ask her permission.”
“And hope that she does not seek to charge you in addition for reproducing it,” M. Lavalle said. His words were not meant unkindly, Henri knew, his master was being realistic. “Great riches are not the only route to happiness,” he’d once told him. “A clear conscience is the path to a good name and a contented life.”
• • •
Guy was panting as though he’d run a mile. “I need to speak to M. Lavalle. I have news of much interest. May I come in?”
“It is late,” Henri said. “He may already have retired, and I am busy.” The last thing he wanted was to listen to another rant from his friend about the scandal of journeymen’s pay.
“Please. It’s important,” Guy pleaded.
M. Lavalle appeared at the top of the stairs. “I was about to treat myself to a drink of chocolat before bed. Would you two both like to join me? Mariette, do we have enough milk?”
Guy smirked. “Alors. Now will you let me in?”
When they were settled in the parlor, Mariette brought a tray with cups of hot milk into which she had melted shavings from a precious lump of chocolate given to M. Lavalle the previous Christmas by a yarn merchant grateful for his continuing custom. The dark treasure was kept hidden in the coolest place in the basement, its use allowed only sparingly.
M. Lavalle took a sip and murmured his appreciation, “C’est délicieux, ma petite,” before turning to Guy. “So, now you can tell us your very important news, my friend.” He took the scruffy piece of paper offered to him. Glancing over the old man’s shoulder, Henri could read the heading: Soie de Lyon, followed by a list of a dozen names. Halfway down was written Jsph. Sadler & Son.
M. Lavalle skimmed it, sucking the breath through his teeth. “These are important men. Why are their names on this list?”
“They have imported French silk, sir, from Lyon, without paying the duty. That is what we believe.”
Henri forgot to breathe for a second. The great Joseph Sadler, breaking the law? He cared nothing for the man and his pig of a son, but the scandal could spell disaster for his niece.
M. Lavalle sighed and scratched his head beneath the velvet cap. “This is dangerous information. Where did you get it?”
“Last week I was at the chophouse with some friends talking about the Book of Prices when someone said it was a waste of time because French imports would have us all in the poorhouse before long,” Guy said. “Some fellows at the next table heard our talk and said they could help us: they had information about who was buying French silk.”
“And from where did their information come, may we ask?”
“They are workers at the port of London, sir. They see everything coming in and going out. They noticed many packages, rolls of fabric addressed to London mercers, which were not marked for import duty, so they opened one or two and discovered that it was French silk. Some of the lads thought they might make a few bob in blackmail, but they got cold feet and decided it was safer to approach the Weavers’ Company a
bout it.”
“And did they do this?”
Guy nodded.
“I was at a Freemen’s meeting two days ago. Surely it would have been mentioned?”
“That’s the point, sir. Nothing has happened. The lads are assuming the Company has buried it because of the important names.”
M. Lavalle shook his head. “Not that I have heard. But do I now take it they sold you the list instead, right there, in the chophouse?”
“The journeymen’s group bought it from their campaign funds,” Guy said. “The group who put together the Book of Prices.”
“And what does this group propose to do with it now?” M. Lavalle asked.
“That is why I am here, sir, to seek your advice. You know these people. What is the best way to proceed?”
M. Lavalle took a long sip of chocolate and wiped his mustache with his kerchief.
“I need to give this some serious thought, Guy. It requires careful handling, or it will go off like gunpowder, and innocent people might get injured. I need to talk to some of my fellow Freemen, those whom I can trust. Come back at the end of the week, Sunday afternoon, would you? We shall talk more and perhaps drink more chocolat. Can your group wait?”
“I will ask them tonight. But I fear that unless they see some action soon, they will take matters into their own hands. French imports are taking the food from their children’s mouths, they say, and it is time the authorities showed a firm hand. All of their protests have been met with deaf ears, and their patience is running out.” He made a small bow. “Thank you for your time, Monsieur Lavalle. The chocolat was delicious, Miss Mariette. Good night to you all.”
As they parted for bed, M. Lavalle whispered to Henri, “Your friend is among hotheads. I fear he may get into trouble. You have read the newspaper reports about the cutters and the group that calls itself the Bold Defiance? The Guards are becoming impatient with their protests, and if they are caught, they will be shown no mercy. Please warn him to be careful.”
At the foot of the stairs he turned back to Henri. “I know that he is a good friend of yours, but if Guy persists with these associates, you would be wise to distance yourself from him. I have high hopes for your future, my boy. It would break my heart to see you getting into trouble.”
• • •
Guy’s list was not mentioned again nor, to Henri’s relief, did he reappear. He noticed, however, that M. Lavalle was frequently out of the house. Henri hoped he would be able to settle the matter quietly, so that Guy could disengage himself and there would be no scandal that might affect Anna’s family.
Over the following days, he found excuses to visit the market as often as he could. Each time Anna did not reappear, he was disappointed and yet, at the same time, slightly relieved.
He decided instead to send a letter. It took him a whole evening to write and rewrite, with much agonizing over the unfamiliar English words and their spelling. Finally, he was satisfied but then delayed a further two days, trying to summon the courage to deliver it.
At last, when he reached the end of a weave half an hour earlier than expected, he could allow himself to procrastinate no longer. Several times, en route to Spital Square, his heart faltered. What would he say should he meet her in the street or, worse, at the doorstep? I have a letter for you? Or would he just blurt it out: I bought your drawing from the stallholder at the market. Can I have your permission to use it as the design for my master piece?
It was a simple enough request, after all. So what was it about this girl that made him feel so awkward, so nervous and unsure of himself?
9
Opinions vary regarding ladies’ withdrawal to the drawing room after the meal while the men indulge in port, cigars, and masculine conversation. The best advice is to follow the lead of the host and hostess.
—The Lady’s Book of Manners
Anna read the last page of her book, slapped it shut, and sighed. There was still more than an hour to kill before suppertime.
She’d read the novel several times and each time had found it more disheartening. Poor, sad Clarissa, pressured by her family into marrying the vile Robert Lovelace. Was that all life was about for a young woman: Being hawked around the marriage market? And was it the only alternative to poverty, ignominy, and death?
She tried to remind herself that her own situation was very far from that of tragic Clarissa’s. There was no coercion, for a start; she was here in London entirely of her own volition and in the care of a loving and generous family who, although they might expect it, were not by any means pressuring her to get married. She could change her mind and return home at any time and, for the meanwhile at least, she had hardly met anyone, let alone a villain like Lovelace.
So why could she not shake off this feeling of being so entirely undermined? She did not recognize her former self anymore, the chatty, cheerful girl always ready to challenge and question, sometimes getting into trouble for it but never doubting for a moment the love of her family and friends. When once she had felt so confident of her place in the world—albeit the small world of the village—here in the city she was floundering, directionless, uncertain how to behave, even of what to think. Am I losing myself? she wondered. Perhaps this is what happens when you grow up? Or was it just that she had not yet found her place in this society?
She went to the open window, looking out across the rooftops, which sometimes helped to ease her loneliness. There is a world out there just waiting to be discovered. Once she found her feet and had learned the ways of the city, she would be better able to determine how to enjoy it.
A small movement in the street below caught her eye, and she leaned farther out of the window to peer over the parapet. Someone was crossing the square, making straight for their front door. He looked familiar, even from this height, and when he turned his head as if to check whether anyone was watching she knew instantly that it was the French weaver. Observing his easy, confident stride, the bare legs below the breeches, the modest linen jacket with white shirt and loose kerchief at the neck, and the dark plait that fell onto his neck, she couldn’t help recalling the moment she had come to her senses, finding herself in his arms, the unfamiliar but somehow comforting smell of him, and the strange language he spoke to his friend.
He had a piece of paper in his hand, probably an invoice for silks woven, she assumed. Because of the porch overhang, she could not see whether he actually knocked on the door, but moments later he was returning across the square. He had just disappeared from sight when she heard the light skip of Lizzie’s feet on the stairs and a knock at the door.
“Anna, are you there? I’ve something for you.”
“Come in,” Anna called, turning from the window, picking up the book again, and opening it at a random page.
“It’s been delivered by hand,” the girl said, handing her a letter.
“Thank you, Cousin,” she said, trying not to betray the unsettling feeling in her chest, a kind of fluttering, like the wings of a tiny bird.
“Won’t you open it now? Please? I am burning up with curiosity.”
“I can only quench your fire when I have discovered myself from whom the letter comes and what it says. Please close the door as you leave.” The girl pulled a face, emphasizing her disappointment with each clomp of her feet descending the wooden stairway.
Anna held herself very still, taking slow breaths for several minutes. Even then, she could not stop her hands from shaking when she finally allowed herself to pick up the letter. She broke the seal and opened it.
Dear Miss Anna,
This is me, Henri Vendôme, the silk weaver. It is dificult to explain, but I am wanting to speak you about matter of importance. It is possible we meet, please? Can you reply at my adress your anser, yes or no? I hope very much yes.
Henri
Her immediate instinct was to laugh at his terrible spelling
, but she checked herself. The boy’s first language was French, after all. She herself could barely speak a single word of his tongue, or any other language come to that, so what right did she have to be critical?
As for the content of the letter, she was consumed with curiosity. Whatever could this matter of importance be? She had already learned that people in the city only mixed socially with those of the same level: lords with lords, merchants like her uncle with other merchants, manual workers with other manual workers. This inflexibility seemed a pity; it would probably be more fun to spend time with Henri and his friend Guy, she thought wistfully, than at the tame tea parties her aunt would organize.
She barely knew him and yet each time she’d found herself in his presence, she had felt a strange familiarity, as though she had been acquainted with him in another life, long ago. Had she met someone else who looked like him, which might account for it? However much she racked her brain, she could find no conclusion. So perhaps that sense of intimacy was only a consequence of his rescuing her in those confusing few hours of her first day in London, nothing more?
So rapt was she by these tempting, perplexing thoughts and the dilemma presented by this unexpected turn of events, that she barely noticed time passing. The bell rang for supper, and she hurriedly concealed the letter under a pile of papers.
• • •
The table was laid with the usual mouthwatering generosity: cold meats, hams and salted beef, fresh loaves from the market, a steaming pile of boiled potatoes, green beans, and slices of braised marrow. Uncle Joseph, usually the first to reach for the meat and pile his plate high, sat with his hands in his lap. His attention seemed to be elsewhere. When urged by Sarah, he muttered irritably that he had no appetite this evening and would she please leave him be.
While everyone at the table—Sarah, Lizzie, William, Anna, and the two clerks—helped themselves and began to eat, their spoons clattering in the uneasy silence, Joseph’s empty plate seemed to glare in reproach.
