The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  Anna’s heart recoiled, but she held her tongue. She must write to him straightaway, before her aunt could do so. She did not want to be “settled,” like a business deal. She wanted to be in love.

  12

  Be warily silent in all concerns as are in matter of dispute between others. For he that blows the coals in quarrels he has nothing to do with, has no right to complain if the sparks fly in his face.

  —Advice for apprentices and journeymen

  OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate

  It was at noon when they ceased their looms for the lunch break, that they first heard the hubbub of voices, like distant thunder, billowing over the rooftops and reverberating through the streets.

  “Whatever is that?” The apprentice Benjamin leaped from his loom bench and went to the window. As he opened it, the sound magnified into a roar over which individual, though not identifiable, shouts could be heard. Henri, Benjamin, and the drawboy looked at each other, their eyes wide in a mixture of curiosity and alarm.

  They peered down into the street below. Many of the neighbors were out on their doorsteps, some already walking toward the end of the road in the direction of the noise. The three of them tumbled down the loft ladder and the two sets of stairs to the ground floor, elbowing each other as each tried to be first. M. Lavalle was already on the doorstep.

  “What do you think it is, Master?” Benjamin asked.

  “Word has it that the journeymen will march to Parliament today, to protest against a bill which will allow the import of foreign silks,” he said. “The Company has already sent representatives, but it seems their pleas have fallen on deaf ears, so the journeymen are taking the matter into their own hands. I fear it may result in violence,” he sighed. “Which will do no good for their cause.”

  “May I go to see?” Henri said. “So that I can report back to you?”

  M. Lavalle frowned. “I cannot stop you, my boy, for you are no longer indentured and are entitled to your midday break. But I must warn you that you do not have my blessing to join the march, no matter how persuasive the exhortations of your fellows. And beware. If previous demonstrations are anything to go by, there will be violence. Proceed with the utmost caution. Ensure that you are nowhere near any such eruptions or associated with any who take part in them, especially the Bold Defiance men. The Guards will crack down without mercy.”

  “Absolument, monsieur,” Henri said, leaping down the steps. “I will be most careful—and I’ll be back within the half hour, I promise.”

  At the end of the road he could already see the throng spilling across Red Lyon Street, creating an unholy crush in every direction. It was a gathering of humanity larger than Henri had ever seen, reaching out so far that he could not tell where it ended. There must be well over two thousand men, he thought to himself, their faces hungry-looking, their sunken eyes fiery with desperation. Many were clothed in rags and some were even barefoot. What bitter irony, he thought, for men who wove the most sumptuous fabrics in the land.

  They reminded him of the time when he and his mother had been close to starvation, how they had worn out their shoes walking to London and had gone barefoot until the French church took them in and clothed them. But he had never witnessed hardship on this scale. It was dizzying to comprehend. How shielded I have been, he thought, how fortunate to have been taken in by Monsieur Lavalle.

  Angry coachmen, cart drivers, and peddlers hurled volleys of abuse as they tried to push their way through the mob to reach the market. It made no difference: the crowd’s attention was elsewhere, held by a tall, bearded man shouting through a conical bullhorn from a position high on the steps of Christ Church.

  “We can brook no further delay,” he was calling. “Letters and petitions through the official channels have made not a jot of difference to their lordships. They appear to care more for covering their own lazy arses”—the crowd booed and made farting noises—“and the tits of their mistresses in fine French silks”—more jeers, accompanied by vulgar gestures—“than they do for the poverty of their own countrymen.”

  Henri scanned the throng until his eyes burned, trying to spot Guy. He had not seen his friend since that stormy day two weeks before but felt sure he must be here somewhere. If he could not see him, he feared he might have to assume the worst.

  “Today is the opening of Parliament, so all the members will be there. But it must be a peaceful demonstration, you understand. There are to be no punches thrown, nor stones. A riot would only serve to undermine our cause. Do I have your word?” The speaker was rewarded with a murmur of agreement, even though some among the crowd were carrying sticks and stakes, which surely meant they were set for a fight. Their fearsome expressions and angrily muttered utterances underlined their obvious intent.

  “We’re going to get the bastards.”

  “Yeh, make ’em suffer.”

  “Show ’em they can’t treat us like animals anymore.”

  “Fair pay for a fair day’s work, that’s all we want.”

  “They’ve got to stop that illegal trade in effing French silk. It’s ruining us.”

  “It’s starving us.”

  “We’ve had enough.”

  “We’re going to tell ’em. Loud and clear.”

  • • •

  The clock on Christ Church sounded the half hour. As Henri went to leave, he heard a familiar voice: “Henri, ça va?” It was Guy, even thinner and more unkempt than before, but at least he was not in prison. Henri ran to his friend, embracing him. “Where have you been? Did the Guards ever…?”

  “Lying low. But enough time’s gone by now, so I figured…” Guy gestured behind him. “Why aren’t you coming with us?”

  Henri could feel the pull of the crowd, the excitement and camaraderie. “I am forbidden. I cannot afford to disobey Monsieur Lavalle, not right now. You must take care, Guy.”

  Guy scowled his disapproval. “Will you obey your master over your fellow workers, par le sang de Dieu?”

  “It’s not like that. You know why. I have to support my mother—I cannot afford to lose my job.”

  The drums had started again, dozens of colorful banners were raised, and the crowd was moving, pressing forward so that Guy began to be carried away with them. “Maudit cadavre pestiféré,” he mouthed over the din, pumping his fist in front of his crotch. “When will you grow up to be a man?”

  • • •

  The Red Lyon was packed with journeymen returned from the demonstration, their faces ablaze with triumph and ale: “There was at least three thousand there, I swear it.” And: “Them lace makers came good to their promise—a few hundred of them, I’d vouch, swelling our numbers.”

  As far as anyone knew, there had been only one or two outbreaks of violence, and damage was restricted to a few broken windows in the House of Commons. Five men had been arrested, three of those later released without charge. Despite this, all agreed the demonstration had been a great success. “We got them toffs running scared, didn’t we?” they bragged. “So worried they sent for the Gunners.”

  “Let’s hope the sight of all those hungry men will scare Parliament into action,” M. Lavalle murmured gloomily. He’d insisted on accompanying Henri to gather information about the demonstration, and, Henri assumed, to make sure he did not get into trouble. “Some cannot even afford to buy bread. If this goes on much longer, thousands will starve.”

  “Surely they won’t allow that to happen?”

  “We do what we can at the church, but charity alone cannot address such suffering.”

  On the way home they met Guy, clearly the worse for beer. “Had a nice easy day, did you?” he slurred, veering across the street toward them. “Looking after your own fat arse while we risked our necks to support our friends?”

  “It was on my account he could not join you,” M. Lavalle said, stepping between them. “I
would not allow it because we have a deadline on an important commission and no one can afford to turn down work these days. But I was glad to hear that the demonstration was peaceful. I’m sure it will have the desired effect.”

  “The desired effect, mon oeil,” Guy mumbled, swaying on his feet, his eyes trying to focus. He snorted and spat a fat oyster of phlegm at their feet before gathering himself and meandering away.

  • • •

  What M. Lavalle had said was no lie. Henri and Benjamin had been working on a large order of silk for the newly rich colonials across the Atlantic Ocean. The work was so prestigious and the design so secret that M. Lavalle could not risk outsourcing it to other journeymen, and this meant that both of the looms at Wood Street were fully engaged and Henri had been unable to make any progress on the new design for his master piece.

  Five days had passed since his meeting with the English girl Anna, and it now seemed to him like a dream, unreal and unlikely. But he found himself thinking of her much of the time, longing to be in her presence once again, to hear her talk in that forthright way, to tell her of the funny moments in his life and the sad, to share his hopes and fears, to talk about the guilt and sorrow he felt toward his old friend Guy.

  The longing was worst at night, in the dark, in his truckle bed. It was then that she appeared to him again, placing her hand on his sleeve, the heat of it traveling up his arm and coursing through his body. When this translated into physical hunger, he felt ashamed, as if sullying her memory, but could not resist pleasuring himself with the vision of her face before him.

  With the morning would come reality and the sobering knowledge that, in all probability, he would never speak to her again. She had given permission for him to use the design, and that was it. She would marry some well-respected society figure, and he would go back to flirting with other girls—and so often finding himself disappointed—until he could make enough money to take a wife, probably a homely soul who would cook and sew and care for him in his fading years.

  He admired the drawing just as much as he had the first time he set eyes on it, but as the days passed, he began to doubt his ability to weave it. He asked his master once again, was it good enough for a master piece? But the old man would not be drawn. “It is a very fine piece of work,” he allowed. “The girl has great talent. But it is your challenge to translate that into a fine piece of silk.”

  Mariette positively bubbled with enthusiasm. “Ooh, it’s heavenly,” she shrilled. “Completely wonderful. I want it for my new gown.” She looked up at him with those coy, dewy eyes. “Is it your drawing, no, surely not? Wherever did you get it?”

  When he would not reply, she pressed her point. “Tell me, Henri. Who exactly is this clever artist? Why are you so secretive?”

  “I cannot tell you until the piece is finished,” he improvised. “But then, I promise, the secret will be revealed.”

  “You are such a tease. I hate you,” she cried, flouncing out of the dining room. As he crept past the parlor shortly afterward, he could hear the harpsichord being hammered inexpertly, with many discordant notes.

  And then the realization came to him. Of course! Why had he not thought of it before? The one person whose judgment he could really trust was Miss Charlotte. She met discerning customers every day of the week—it was her business to know what was in and what was out this season. Had she not been kind to him when he had called on her the first time? He remembered her words distinctly now: she’d told him not to hesitate should he need any further help, as she would be pleased to give it. He would show Miss Charlotte the design, and if she liked it, that would settle the matter.

  Two days later, when the silk for the Americas was completed, taken off the looms, carefully packed, and lowered to the street from the gantry for delivery to the mercer, Henri requested the afternoon off. They had been working long hours to meet the deadline, often by candlelight after the evenings had drawn in, and M. Lavalle was in a genial mood.

  “You’ve certainly earned a few hours of liberty,” he said, pulling out his purse. “On your way home, buy us some hot meat pies for our supper and a few bottles of porter besides. And why don’t you invite Clothilde to join us? It’s time to celebrate.”

  As he left the house Henri felt his spirits rising. The prospect of a jolly evening with good food and strong drink was cheering, and his mother would be delighted with the invitation. Since her split with the widower, Clothilde had rarely enjoyed much social company and was very fond of M. Lavalle and Mariette. In fact, Henri had sometimes wondered whether his master had ever considered taking another wife—his mother would make the perfect candidate. She understood the silk business, could cook well and maintain a clean house, and, despite the hardships and sorrows of her life, had kept her figure and her looks. But the old man was still grieving, it seemed. He never showed the slightest interest in other women.

  He strode up Draper’s Lane with greater confidence this time. Alerted by the tinkling of the bell, Miss Charlotte appeared immediately from a door at the back of the room.

  “Monsieur Vendôme,” she said with a sweet smile. “How delightful to see you again. What can I do for you today?”

  Henri pulled Anna’s sketch from his inside pocket, unfolding it onto the table in front of the window, smoothing out the creases as best he could.

  “And what is this?” she asked, taking a seat.

  “It is a drawing of wildflowers, although not by me, bien sûr,” he said. “I think it may make a good design for silk but I like to have your idea, please? Will it work, do you think?”

  She bent her head over the design, studying it with great care. “It is a very charming sketch: so much delicate detail and such naturalism.” And then, fixing him with her dark eyes, she asked, “May I inquire who is the artist?”

  His cheeks burned. “I am sorry… I cannot tell.”

  “What a delightful mystery.” A ripple of amusement flickered across her face. “It is a woman’s hand, I’d wager. But what I find so fascinating”—she peered more closely at the paper—“are these.” She traced her finger along the curving stems of bindweed that crisscrossed the sketch in a loose, informal trellis pattern around which the flowers and foliage were wound. “It has reminded me of something. Wait here a moment, would you?” She reappeared a few seconds later with an illustrated magazine in her hands and sat down, flicking through the pages until she found the one she was seeking.

  “There, look,” she said, handing it to him.

  It was a black-and-white etching: an extraordinary and apparently random collection of classical sculptures in a strange landscape of buildings, walls, and roofscapes, with some anatomical drawings of the muscles of the leg on one side, and open books the other. The scene had a deep border, which contained numbered boxes with drawings of flowers, candlesticks, faces—some quite comical—a pierced torso, a woman’s skirt swirling about her legs, and what looked like a set of stays in various curvy shapes.

  “What is this?” he asked. “I have not before seen anything like it.”

  “You have heard of the artist William Hogarth?”

  “Indeed I have,” Henri said. “Monsieur Lavalle has a print that he shows new apprentices: The Fellow ’Prentices at their Looms. He hopes it warn us about the dangers of idleness and drink.”

  “That’s the one. He has always had an interest in Spitalfields—he was born not far from here. His wife, Jane, has long been a customer of mine—such a charming woman and herself once an artist—and she recently had the goodness to bring me this magazine article about his new book, The Analysis of Beauty.”

  “It looks complicated.”

  “It is, rather, but Mrs. Hogarth tried to explain it to me. Mr. Hogarth has endured much criticism for being so arrogant as to try to define what constitutes beauty and good taste, but I think he has a point—that is what he’s trying to illustrate in this print.”


  “I will try my best to understand.”

  “In a nutshell, that the infinite variety of curved lines in nature are far more pleasing to the eye than the straight lines and angles that humans create,” she said. “These classical sculptures are full of curves, because they follow anatomy. Nature is full of curves, like these flowers. The furniture maker Chippendale knows it—here are his turned-wood chair legs.”

  With rising excitement, Henri began to comprehend what Miss Charlotte was trying to tell him—that the curving plant stems crisscrossing Anna’s design were the very essence of that beauty. “And the curved lines in my sketch are just like that?”

  “Exactly so,” she said, turning to the shelves along the back wall of the showroom. She returned with a bolt of cloth and unfolded a short piece of beautiful, shimmering silk brocade, with a diamond pattern of lines infilled with floral designs.

  “This is not unlike your design, but it has one thing missing,” she said. “The lines are straight, the angles are sharp, and they contrast uncomfortably with the naturalness of the flowers. Your design is so much more pleasing to the eye, because it is set on a framework of naturally curved stems—what Mr. Hogarth calls the serpentine curve.”

  He looked into her face and then down once more at the print, lost for words. When he picked up the sketch again, his fingers were trembling. “So do you think…that this will make a good design for dress silk?”

  “I think it will do very well indeed. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” she said, the smile lighting up her pale cheeks.

  “Thank you very much. You have filled my heart with happiness.”

  “It is my pleasure, Monsieur Vendôme.”

  “Please. My name is Henri.”

  “If you wish. In which case, you must call me Charlotte,” she said. “And, now that we are on first-name terms and I am not expecting my next customer for half an hour, will you take a cup of tea?”