The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  “A letter addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Sadler, and one for yourself,” she said, presenting the silver tray to Aunt Sarah with a curtsy. “Would you take more tea, madam?”

  “No, you may remove the tray now, thank you.” Aunt Sarah brushed her away with a flick of her wrist and reached for the ivory letter knife.

  The first, released from its crested envelope with great ceremony, was the formal invitation to the Worshipful Company of Mercers’ annual autumn dinner the following week, the event that had been the subject of much discussion at the Hinchliffes’ on their visit. Sarah examined for some minutes the thick, gilt-edged card with its heavy gold script, before asking Anna to place it on the mantelpiece.

  “No, not there, dear. In the middle, where everyone can see it,” she said, sighing at her niece’s failure to appreciate the simplest of social niceties.

  Anna had heard no mention of French silk since the night of the stone-throwing incident. Perhaps, she thought, this invitation was an indication that all had been smoothed over. She very much hoped so.

  “Your uncle and I are certain to have a most advantageous place at the high table because Mr. Sadler is tipped to be Upper Bailiff next year. He is so very well respected, you know, and it is the highest position in the Company.” Sarah fanned her face with the envelope. “Oh, my dear, it fills me with such pride to think of it. And I will have to look my very best at his side. I must commission a new gown from Miss Charlotte at the very earliest moment.”

  She took up the second letter. “And this one is from dearest Augusta,” she exclaimed, unsealing the folded note and reading out loud:

  “Now that we are lately returned from Bath, Charles, Susannah, and I would be delighted to welcome yourself, Miss Sadler, and Miss Butterfield for tea tomorrow afternoon.”

  “How very generous,” Aunt Sarah purred. “Do you hear that, Anna? Charles will be joining us again. This is excellent news. He seemed most taken with you last time.”

  “He is certainly a very pleasant young man,” Anna said, recalling the cadaverous face and the Adam’s apple that bobbed so distractingly in his throat.

  “I do so long to hear about their time in Bath,” Sarah went on. “And whether Susannah was introduced to any suitable young men. Oh, and I wonder if they met with Mr. Gainsborough to discuss Mr. Hinchliffe’s portrait. I should be most interested to hear of this. Indeed, I have considered whether we should commission him ourselves, to paint your uncle in his Upper Bailiff robes and regalia.”

  Anna knew full well of Mr. Gainsborough’s reputation—he had painted many members of the minor aristocracy—and she doubted that her aunt had any idea how much such a portrait might cost. But the possibility was certainly intriguing: the chance of meeting the famous artist, or even watching him at work, would be a remarkable opportunity. She had seen reproductions of his work in magazines and although his portraiture was of no interest to her whatsoever, the depictions of nature in his backgrounds—especially those wonderful trees and skies—were second to none.

  Sarah was reading the rest of the letter:

  “Recalling Miss Butterfield’s interest in matters botanical, I have also arranged for the artist Mr. Ehret to visit at the same time. We pray for clement weather which will enable us all to view Mr. Hinchliffe’s garden together.”

  “How thoughtful. I am sure we will all enjoy that very much.” Sarah sounded unconvinced. But Anna’s heart had begun to race with excitement: Georg Ehret, one of the most celebrated masters of botanical illustration! And she was to meet him tomorrow. She could scarcely wait.

  • • •

  The next day dawned gray and drizzly, and Anna spent the morning gazing anxiously at the sky, keen to detect any sign of the clouds lifting. Her stomach was full of butterflies.

  Happily, by the time the carriage arrived, the weather was clearing, the sun dimly visible through a thin veil of mist. Anna brought with her two sketchbooks of different sizes and a set of newly sharpened graphites. Even Lizzie’s persistent chatter for the entire journey could not dampen her sense of pleasurable anticipation.

  Mr. Ehret was already in attendance when they arrived: a tall, slim, middle-aged man with a prominent nose and rather bulbous lips, wearing a well-powdered wig and dressed soberly in a black jacket and waistcoat. On his feet were the shiniest black shoes she had seen in a long time.

  At their entry, he leaped to his feet, clipped his heels, and, in response to Mrs. Hinchliffe’s introductions, made a short, formal bow to each of the ladies in turn, repeating in strongly accented English, “Delighted, most delighted, I am sure.”

  “Our gracious hostess informs me that you too are an artist, Miss Butterfield?” he said. “And that you are interested in botanical drawing?”

  “I am but a very amateur artist, sir. However, I have seen your work and am most honored to meet you.”

  “Would you care to sit with me,” he said, patting the place beside him on the chaise longue, “so that we may talk about painting?” He glanced toward the window. “And then, if the sun decides to oblige us, we may take a walk to admire Mr. Hinchliffe’s most admirable planting.”

  Serious conversation was curtailed by the serving of tea and cakes, followed by further offerings and polite refusals. When she and Mr. Ehret fell silent, her attention was drawn to the other side of the tea table, where Susannah and Lizzie seemed already to have become the best of friends. Lizzie was quizzing the older girl about the entertainments in Bath.

  “For how many dances did you say he chose you?”

  “Five, including the last.”

  “Oh, he must be so very taken with you. Is he wonderfully handsome?”

  “Tall and slim, with the deepest brown eyes imaginable.” Susannah lowered her voice, checking across the table to make sure her mother was not listening. “He’s in the Guards.”

  “The ones who wear those wonderful red jackets?”

  Susannah nodded, her cheeks blushing a similar hue.

  “Ooh, you are so lucky,” Lizzie sighed. “I cannot wait to be eighteen.”

  “You must come with us to Bath next summer.”

  Lizzie looked across to Anna. “And can my cousin come too?”

  Susannah laughed gaily. “Of course! The more the merrier. It is so much fun.”

  Anna forced herself to smile. From what she’d heard, the summer season at Bath was a market where mothers paraded their daughters in front of potential suitors like so many farmers showing off their sheep or cattle to meat buyers. The very idea filled her with horror.

  The lively, informal conversation between Lizzie and Susannah only seemed to highlight her own difference: their shared enthusiasm for fashion, dancing, and prospective husbands was a world away from her own, more serious interests in art, literature, and the ways of the world. It made her feel even more like an outsider than ever.

  • • •

  At last the formalities were ended, and as they set foot outside, the sun came out to greet them. Losing her nerve at the last moment, she left the basket with sketch pad and pencils behind.

  The garden was so much wider and longer than she had expected, hidden on all sides behind high brick walls. The parade of ladies, followed by Mr. Ehret, strolled the graveled paths between wide rectangular raised borders, exclaiming and sighing over the planting that, even in early September, provided a truly colorful display of Michaelmas daisies, dahlias, and late roses as well as many foliage plants that Anna could not identify.

  “My dear Augusta, this truly is a sight to salve the soul,” Aunt Sarah gushed. “How fortunate you are to have a wide expanse for your palette. In Spital Square we have such a cramped outdoor space it seems barely worth the effort of planting it.”

  Toward the end of the garden, the path led between a row of espalier trees laden with red and golden apples to a handsome, vine-covered pergola shading three stone benches. An
na maneuvered a seat next to Mr. Ehret once more, who immediately began to examine the leaves of the vine, already starting to take on autumn colors.

  “You see,” he said, plucking a leaf. “How the stalk has begun to go red from where it joins the stem, then gold toward the base of the leaf?” Anna nodded, eager to absorb his observations. “And the leaf itself, it is such a beautiful thing, a fascinating study. The outermost points are the first to color, and the area around the veins is the last,” he said, pointing out the reddening edges and the golden skeleton of veins leading out from where the stalk was attached.

  “But there are still patches of green between the red and yellow,” Anna said. “How does that happen?”

  “Well observed, Miss Butterfield,” Ehret said. “The truth is we do not yet know why this happens in some leaves and not in others. There is much careful study among botanists to try to divine how and why leaves color and die in the winter. It is one of many mysteries we have not yet uncovered. In the meantime, the best we can do is record it as faithfully as possible. That is my modest role in the great scientific adventure.”

  He held the leaf up against the sun. “See how the light filters through in different ways, depending on the depth of color?” he said. “How the red is almost black, the yellow quite golden? And how the network of tiny capillaries now becomes clear?”

  He leaned forward to point out another leaf, on which raindrops were still hanging. “This is fascinating,” he said. “Each drop of water acts as a magnifying glass, so that we see the capillaries even more clearly as we look through it.”

  Anna was enthralled. “For all my many hours of drawing, I feel I have been almost blind,” she sighed.

  “Do not be concerned, my dear,” he said with a kindly smile. “You have your whole life before you, and all you need to do is observe until you feel you know every detail of every leaf, every petal, every stalk. And then you must record, and look, and look again, and look yet again. From what I have been told you already have the talent, and I can see from the way you listen that you also have the passion to be a great artist one day.”

  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small sketchbook and a short, well-sharpened graphite with which he began, with the surest of hand, to draw in miniature the leaf with the drop of rain resting upon it.

  “The serrations of the leaf go thus… This curl of the leaf needs to be shaded like this to give us depth…but where we see the back of the leaf, observe this: it is much paler… The veins all meet at the apex of the stem, not partway up, as with some leaves. And here are our raindrops, two—no, three—in descending diameter… I leave the white paper to shine through to show see how they glitter and refract the sunlight…thus.”

  This was the ultimate lesson from a master of his art, and Anna knew that she must try to understand and remember every word. At last, the sketch was complete. He signed it with a flourish, tore it from his sketchbook, and presented it to her.

  “For me?” she said, blushing.

  He nodded.

  “I cannot accept. It is too generous.”

  “Of course you must, my dear,” he said with the kindest smile. “I made it for you.”

  Before she could object any further, they were interrupted by a raucous shout. “There you all are! I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “Charles, my dearest,” his mother called, as the gangly frame came striding down the path toward them. “We have been enjoying the late sunshine with Mr. Ehret. Come and join us.”

  Mr. Ehret leaped to his feet in greeting, and Charlie proceeded along the row of ladies, welcoming each in turn. When he came to Anna he held on to her hand a fraction longer, taking it to his lips. She felt his gaze piercing her, immobilizing her like a butterfly pinioned inside a frame.

  “Miss Butterfield, what a pleasure. The city has been treating you well, I can see, for you are looking even more charming than I remember.” He sat down beside her in the space that Mr. Ehret had vacated. “Tell me what you have been up to since we last met.”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid,” she replied. Although much had happened, none of it must ever be allowed to reach the Hinchliffes’ ears. “The city appears to be very quiet in August.”

  “Indeed. All sensible people leave the city in summertime,” he said, apparently unaware of the affront his words might cause. “And how is my good friend William?”

  “He seems well, I think.” In fact, she had noticed, over the past few days, that her cousin appeared even more subdued than ever. At first she’d put it down to worry over the money he owed and the issue of the French silk, but at supper the previous evening, he had looked sweaty and rather bilious, and he left much of his plate untouched. He had left the table early, as was his custom, but had not rushed out as usual. She longed to find the opportunity to ask him whether he’d been able to repay the money she’d caught him stealing, but the right moment never seemed to arrive. Before she could leave the table herself, she’d heard him climbing the stairs to his room, and he was not seen for the rest of the evening.

  “Please tell him I will see him at the club tonight. He is expected. And may I call on you at the Sadler house, perhaps tomorrow or the next day?” Charlie was saying.

  “That would be delightful,” she said. The air had cooled as the sun slipped downward in the sky, and she suppressed a shiver.

  Before long everyone agreed that it was too chilly to remain in the garden and Aunt Sarah declared that it was time to leave. As they said good-bye, Mr. Ehret gave another of his formal bows. “It was such a pleasure to talk to a fellow artist, Miss Butterfield. I do hope we have the opportunity to talk further in the not-too-distant future.”

  “Indeed, I would like that very much,” Anna said, her cheeks glowing pink from the compliment. “I shall try to practice what you have taught me, Mr. Ehret. And I shall treasure your sketch forever.”

  “My dear, I am unworthy of your flattery, but I thank you for it all the same,” he said, bowing more deeply this time.

  • • •

  Charles was invited for tea at Spital Square the following day.

  Betty was dispatched to buy fresh tea, milk, cakes, and sweetmeats. “Girls, you will make the drawing room ready for our visitor,” Sarah instructed. “Make sure the cushions are well plumped, and put out some appealing books and journals on the tables, my dears, so we may impress him with our wide-ranging interests. It often helps to stimulate a conversation of consequence. Lizzie, please practice your most charming pieces for the harpsichord in case we would like music to entertain us.”

  When he arrived, Aunt Sarah insisted that Charlie should take a seat beside Anna on the settle and, after they had finished tea and endured a further uncomfortable ten minutes of polite conversation, Lizzie was cajoled into playing the harpsichord and Sarah picked up her embroidery frame, moving to a seat by the window.

  “Don’t mind if I leave you young things to chat among yourselves, do you? I need the light for such close work. This handkerchief has been promised to a friend and I cannot delay.” Anna observed these maneuvers with amusement and some unease. This was the carefully engineered opportunity Charlie had been waiting for, even expecting.

  “Miss Butterfield—” he began.

  “Anna, please.”

  The first time they met, she had thought his eyes, so closely set either side of that prominent nose, rather piercing and unkindly, but his face seemed to have softened, the narrow cheeks filled out and less sallow.

  “Anna. I have so enjoyed the opportunity of getting to know you better, but there is an additional purpose to my visit. On Saturday week we—that is, my family and I—are attending the annual autumn ball at the Inns of Court and it would be so very delightful if you were able to accompany us.”

  Anna felt the blush spreading across her chest, so vulnerably exposed by the low neckline of her dress, up her nec
k, and flooding her cheeks. Despite her misgivings, she was flattered that Charles thought enough of her to invite her to such an important event, at the Inns of Court, no less. But a ball? As the implication began to sink in, her head filled with terror. She’d heard of the elegant French-style dances that city folk enjoyed, but the closest she’d come to anything like it was at the assembly rooms in Halesworth, and there they only did the polka and other country dances. How could she attend a proper ball with so little time to prepare? She had only ever tried to dance the minuet once in her life; that had been enough for her to appreciate how complex it was, how it needed to be accomplished with confidence and elegance. She would make a complete fool of herself.

  “Oh, sir,” she began. “I do not think—”

  “Charlie, please.”

  “Mr…Charlie. I do not think…without a chaperone…my uncle—”

  “Mr. Sadler will be perfectly satisfied, do you not think, Mrs. Sadler, when he hears that my mother, father, and sister will be also there?”

  “Oh, indeed,” Sarah responded instantly. She had been hanging on every word, of course, her embroidery neglected, the needle hanging loosely on its thread. “I am sure this would be perfectly acceptable.”

  By the time Charlie took his leave, all was settled. Afterward Aunt Sarah, flushed with excitement, called her into the drawing room. “This is such a wonderful opportunity, my dear,” she fluttered. “Just think, the Inns of Court—such a prestigious event. There will be so many important and influential people there. I am so pleased for you. We must make sure you are dressed in your very best. The sackback in the yellow damask, don’t you think? You did look most alluring in it. But you will need something warm to wear for the journeys—the evenings are drawing in so these days. A cloak? No? You have no cloak? Oh my goodness, we must get Miss Charlotte onto the task immediately.”

  She fanned herself so violently with her embroidery frame that the needle flicked from its thread into a far corner of the room.

  “Charles is such a charming young man, do you not think? And with such prospects. A lawyer—just imagine. There is always work for a lawyer. We will have you settled by the end of the year, my dear, I can promise that. Oh, I cannot wait to tell your father.”