The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  “We must make sure that you are fully prepared for the ball, dearest Niece,” Aunt Sarah declared at supper that evening. “Are you familiar with the French style of dance, my dear?”

  “I fear not, Aunt. I am woefully ignorant of the matter.”

  “Then I shall engage a dancing master forthwith. Mrs. Hinchliffe recommended an excellent fellow who taught Susannah most successfully. I shall request his services, with a harpsichord accompanist, for tomorrow and Friday morning.”

  “You said I could take lessons also,” Lizzie whined. “It will not be long before I am invited to a dance, and surely I too must be prepared.”

  “You may watch and learn, Lizzie,” her mother said firmly. “When the time comes, we shall arrange lessons especially for you. But for now the priority is to ensure that Anna is presented at her very best, is it not, Mr. Sadler?”

  Uncle Joseph grunted into his glass of claret.

  • • •

  “Monsieur le Montagne” managed to maintain the French accent for most of the lesson, only slipping into his native cockney when Anna’s ineptitude led him to extremes of frustration. He was not an attractive man, white-wigged and over-rouged—“a proper macaroni,” Lizzie observed—in an overtight silk jacket and breeches with only slightly stained white stockings. But he was perfectly polite and pleasant in demeanor, and thoroughly professional in his approach.

  “In zee minuet, we are making a beeootiful painting across the floor with our feet, Miss Butterfield, like zis,” he said, demonstrating. They had pushed back the chairs and rolled up the rug in the drawing room, exposing cracked and unsecured floorboards, which made “painting with zee feet” a tricky affair.

  “We have our feet turned out slightly, like zis, which is noble. Never turned in, like zis, which is grotesque.” He frowned like a gargoyle. “First we are on our tiptoes and then we bend, you see,” he said, dipping and rising for all the world like the drakes on the village pond at mating time, Anna thought, struggling to suppress a fit of laughter.

  “We bend,” he repeated, “and we create zee beautiful serpentine shape, like a river, with our feet, our hands, and our…erm…” He ran his hands through the air as if around the curves of an imaginary woman. “Comme ça.”

  “It is like Hogarth. He says the serpentine curve is the essence of beauty.”

  M. le Montagne smiled benignly at his pupil. “Indeed, Miss Butterfield. How clever of you. Mr. Hogarth also declares zat zee minuet is zee perfection of all dancing. Now, let us try again. Remember, no hurrying, no looking at your feet. Gentle fingers, elegant arms, held in opposition to zee direction of your feet. Zat is correct. Now, one, two, and three…sink, rise, bend.”

  Over and over again she tried and failed to meet his exacting requirements, but slowly, as the three hours passed, she gained confidence and made fewer mistakes. Aunt Sarah and Lizzie applauded encouragingly from the sidelines. “You’ve nearly got it, Anna. By tomorrow it will be perfect,” her cousin cried.

  “At least I am not important enough for anyone to take notice of me. They will all be watching the other dancers,” Anna said, sipping from the glass of water her aunt had thoughtfully provided.

  “Oh no,” M. le Montagne piped up. “Each couple must dance separately, that is the point of the minuet.”

  “You mean everyone at the ball will be watching me?” Her elation turned to terror.

  “Yes, I am afraid so,” he said. “I regret that our time is up for today, but tomorrow we shall perfect your dance and I promise you will be the belle of the ball. Au revoir, madame, mesdemoiselles,” he said, bowing deeply to each of the ladies in turn. “À demain.”

  • • •

  Anna was exhausted from the morning’s exertions, but there was to be no rest. The afternoon was fully consumed with considerations of dress and other details: which hairstyle, which shoes, which stockings, which rouge, which blacking for her eyebrows, which parfum, which fan—the painted silk or the lace? Letters were composed to Miss Charlotte and a visit arranged for the following morning to collect various other items that Aunt Sarah deemed vital: a silk scarf in the same yellow damask as the dress, lace lappets for her hair with yellow ribbons, and a fan to match.

  Then there was a full half-hour lesson on how to use the fan.

  “Refrain from placing your fingers to its tip,” Aunt Sarah said, demonstrating. “It will be taken as an invitation that you wish to talk to the person you are looking at. And never, ever, in any circumstances, close it by drawing it through your hand like this.”

  “Why is that so bad?” Lizzie asked.

  “It is supposed to convey that you hate the person you are with.”

  Anna laughed. “I doubt many men trouble themselves to learn the language of the fan.”

  “That’s as may be,” her aunt replied, pursing her lips. “But the other ladies will, and word will spread soon enough.”

  Lizzie took up another fan and put it to her lips. “What does this mean, Mama?”

  Aunt Sarah colored and snatched the fan away. “Do not let me ever see you doing that again, Lizzie.”

  When her aunt was not listening, Anna pressed her cousin for the meaning.

  “It means ‘kiss me.’”

  “I’ll avoid that one, then.”

  “Do you not want Charlie to kiss you? If you are going to marry someone, surely that is what you most desire?”

  “Hush, Lizzie,” Anna scolded. “Let us not run ahead of ourselves.”

  Later, in her room, she pondered her reaction. Why did she not thrill at the thought of Charlie kissing her? Was that not what a young woman most wanted when romance blossomed? He was a nice enough man of good means, who talked with her most respectfully. But when she thought of him, she saw those long limbs, bony cheeks, and the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Would she ever, even in time, find him attractive enough to want to kiss him—or take part in those other things her mother had once darkly hinted at but about which she had very little notion?

  Perhaps I should be grateful that anyone is taking an interest in me, she thought, sighing as she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Who am I to be so choosy?

  • • •

  By Friday lunchtime, after a further three hours of intensive tuition, she felt a good deal more confident of her dancing steps and was even beginning to look forward to the ball. But first there was the trip to Miss Charlotte to collect the finishing touches for her costume.

  Aunt Sarah suggested that Betty be sent, but Anna insisted.

  “It is best that I go in person, for I may need to make some choices or perhaps wait for adjustments,” she said. “It is only a few streets and I can perfectly easily find my way there and back again, just as I did last time.” To her surprise, Aunt Sarah agreed.

  She hoped Miss Charlotte might invite her for tea again, with perhaps the pleasant diversion of entertaining conversation. It was almost at the last moment that she realized that this visit offered the perfect opportunity: she would ask Miss Charlotte if she would be kind enough to deliver her new painting to Henri.

  As she approached the shop in Draper’s Lane, Anna could see that Charlotte had customers. She stalled, crossing the road to the other side where she could wait less conspicuously.

  Through the bow window, she could see a woman holding the hand of a small, pale-faced boy wearing the beautiful plum-colored damask coat she’d seen in the shop several weeks before. Miss Charlotte embraced the young woman briefly and then kneeled so that her face was level with the boy’s, put her hands to his cheeks, and kissed him on the forehead. It was a scene of charming but unexpected intimacy.

  Shortly afterward, the door opened and the pair emerged. Miss Charlotte lingered on the step, waving good-bye. After ten yards or so, the boy turned his head, lifting his hand in a reciprocal gesture. Then something unexpected happened: pulling
away from the woman’s grip and oblivious to her calls, he began to run at some pace back to the shop. He held out his arms, and Charlotte, who had now descended the steps, crouched and opened hers so that he fell straight into her embrace.

  The other woman returned to his side and tried to pry him away, but he clung to Miss Charlotte like a limpet, nuzzling his face into her neck as she appeared to whisper words of comfort. After several long moments, she stood up, forcing him to release his hold, and the young woman took his hand once more. Reluctantly, he was led away, and this time Miss Charlotte went immediately inside and closed the door.

  It was such a touching scene that Anna lingered several minutes further before crossing the road to knock at the door of the shop. She was glad she had done so because the seamstress took some time to answer and, when she did, her eyes were reddened and her cheeks raw-looking. She recovered herself immediately: “Oh, it’s you, Anna,” she said, resuming her usual welcoming smile. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “I have come for some ribbons and lappets for the ball I am attending on Saturday.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  “I could not help seeing you saying good-bye to that young boy. He looked so charming in that beautiful damask coat you made for him.”

  Miss Charlotte flushed. “He is my nephew. The coat was for his seventh birthday.”

  “He seems much attached to you,” Anna said.

  “Indeed…” Her words trailed off and the smile faded. “Now, about those lappets you wanted…”

  When they had completed their business and were taking tea, Anna took out the parcel and explained her request.

  “I am quite happy to deliver it for you,” Miss Charlotte said. “But why do you not take it to him yourself? Unless my memory deceives me, when you were here last week, Henri invited you to visit so that you might better understand how the design would work on the loom.”

  “Indeed, that would be my dearest wish,” Anna said. “But I have not told my aunt and uncle about the design, and I feel sure they would consider it unseemly for me to visit the home of a French weaver.”

  Miss Charlotte nodded sympathetically. “I can certainly deliver it for you on Tuesday afternoon when it is early closing, if that is soon enough?”

  “That will be perfect,” Anna said.

  • • •

  It was arranged that Anna would take a carriage to the Hinchliffes’ after lunch on Saturday and would dress there, along with Susannah, and assisted by their maid.

  In the carriage, Anna was assailed by a fit of nerves, wishing herself far away and not having to face the trial of her social and dancing skills among eminent and wealthy strangers. But Mrs. Hinchliffe—“you must call me Augusta, my dear”—welcomed her like a long-lost daughter.

  “We are just so delighted that you are able to join us,” she warbled. “I am sure we are to enjoy the most delightful evening. Charles tells us that the ball attracts most interesting and distinguished guests.”

  “Dearest Anna, I am almost beside myself with excitement,” Susannah whispered. “I can barely keep still. What color is your dress?”

  “It is a pale-yellow damask robe à la française, so the costumière called it. It has a sackback, which makes me feel most elegant.”

  “How wonderfully à la mode. I cannot wait to see it,” Susannah said. “Mine is eggshell blue, and I have the prettiest dancing shoes you can ever imagine.”

  “I am sure you will be the belles of the ball,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe. “It will be our delight to escort you both.”

  After tea, they both retired to Susannah’s chamber, where her maid—her own personal maid, what an indulgence, Anna thought to herself—was deputed to help them dress. Anna hoped this might be a moment to engage Susannah in conversation, to see what they might have in common. After all, she was the only young woman of her own age to whom she had yet been introduced.

  “What do you like to read, Susannah?” she asked between gasps as the maid tugged at her stays, trying to force her waistline into the same impossibly tiny circumference as her young mistress’s.

  “This and that,” the Susannah replied, distracted by a lace cuff which would not sit correctly. “These have not been starched properly, Hannah.”

  “Beg pardon, miss. I will look out another pair.”

  “Be quick about it, then. What were you saying, Anna?”

  “I wondered if you like to read novels, you know, romances like Pamela or Clarissa. Or what about Jonathan Swift? I love his satires.”

  Susannah regarded her blankly. Anna tried again.

  “Or perhaps you like poetry? Thomas Gray? I do so love his ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.’”

  “How does it go?” Susannah regarded herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that.

  Anna thought for a moment, then began:

  “The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

  the lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

  the ploughman homeward plods his weary way

  and leaves the world to darkness and to me.”

  “Sounds too gloomy for me.” Susannah held out her arms so Hannah could fit the new cuffs, then stepped forward to the dresser, causing her maid to run with her, and picked up a slim volume. “Mama gave me this,” she said.

  On the front was an illustration of two beautiful young women. Each part of their anatomy, the height of their hair, the size of their eyes, the extent of their décolletages, and the slimness of their waistlines seemed overly exaggerated, unlike any girl Anna had ever encountered. “The Lady’s Book of Manners,” she said, turning to an inside page and reading out loud.

  “‘No lady should drink wine at dinner. Even if her head is strong enough to bear it, she will find her cheeks, soon after the indulgence, flushed, hot, and uncomfortable.’ Alas, I surely have no manners. My uncle serves claret each evening, and I drink it!”

  She read again: “‘No young lady should go to a ball, without the protection of a married lady or an elderly gentleman.’”

  Susannah laughed. “Thank heavens we have Mother and Father with us tonight. She’s married and he’s elderly.”

  For a while their conversation was lively enough, but it soon dwindled, and Anna found herself struggling to find topics of mutual interest with which to fill the time. At last they were called. The carriage was waiting.

  • • •

  Arriving at the Inns of Court, their cloaks were taken by a red-and-gold-liveried footman, who ushered them into the grandest anteroom Anna had ever seen, with bright Persian carpets, deep-buttoned leather benches along both sides, and, at either end, walls covered with portraits of pompous-looking men. Charles was there to greet them.

  “Miss Butterfield, it is my greatest pleasure that you are able to join us.” He bowed and took her hand to his lips, whispering, “You are looking very fine this evening.”

  She blushed in spite of herself. She had to admit he made an impressive figure, a full head taller than her and bewigged, splendidly attired in a brilliant silk brocade coat cut away in the latest fashion with white lace ruffles at neck and wrists. Perhaps it was the mirrored hall or the light of so many candelabra, but she thought him a great deal more handsome than she remembered.

  Accepting his offer of a glass of claret, she drank it down eagerly, hoping the alcohol would soothe her nerves. To blazes with The Lady’s Book of Manners, she thought. They chatted for a while, although their conversation was constantly interrupted by men greeting Charles in loud, booming voices, slapping him on the back, and calling him “my boy.” He introduced her to each one, but after the initial politenesses, she was mostly ignored.

  It was with some relief that she heard the orchestra tuning up, and Charles invited her to dance. The ballroom seemed to Anna at least the size of their village cricket pitch, and the ceiling the height of a ch
urch, supported by marble columns and lit by a dozen glittering chandeliers.

  Before she had a moment to think, they were already taking their places and it became obvious that the very first dance was indeed a minuet. Happily, four other couples took the central floor before them, all apparently fluent in the art of the dance, allowing her time to revise the movements before it was their turn.

  She remembered to keep her feet turned out, not to look down at them, and, most of the time, at which moments to dance on her toes or dip her knees. When it came to the all-important diagonal pass across the center of the floor, the climax of the dance, Charles held out his arm well in advance to indicate that this was the moment when their wrists were to touch at the turn.

  As they finished, she curtsied as elegantly as she knew how, he bowed, and, as he offered his arm to lead her from the floor, the other dancers and observers clapped appreciatively. “A triumph, Miss Butterfield,” he whispered. “You are a most accomplished dancer.”

  The rest of the evening flew by as she danced twice again with Charles, once with Mr. Ehret, and once with Mr. Hinchliffe. Susannah waved gaily each time they passed on the floor, apparently with a new partner each time. At last, as her feet were starting to ache, she heard the announcement of the final minuet, and it was Charles who claimed her.

  Before she knew it, they were all in a carriage on their way home, Susannah chattering gaily with her mother about all the marvelously handsome young men she had danced with, and Mr. Hinchliffe and Charles exchanging information about the important people they had observed or conversed with during the evening and the business connections they had made.