The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  Henri frowned. How could she be a problem? “You have no need to be concerned about Mariette, sir. She is very dear to me, like a sister. Of course, this would always be her home, until she marries. I would take the greatest possible care of her.”

  “She is my true heir,” M. Lavalle said. “How can I leave the business to you while ensuring that she receives her rightful inheritance?”

  The reality of the dilemma was beginning to dawn on Henri. Women worked as throwsters, like his mother, and he had heard of one or two who did plain weaving. But he had never heard of a woman silk master. In any case, Mariette would not expect to be a working woman; she deserved—and he knew that her father intended her to have—better things, like marriage and a life of comfort and leisure.

  “Before long she will be of an age to marry, will she not? And such a beautiful young woman will surely have her choice of suitors?”

  “And now we come to the nub of it, my boy, the true nub of it.” M. Lavalle looked down at his pipe and spent some moments carefully refilling it. He seemed to be tongue-tied by this nub, whatever it was.

  “Please go on, sir. I am in suspense.”

  “Mariette tells me that two young women came to the house yesterday?”

  This was the last thing Henri expected. What did their visit have to do with it?

  “It was the costumière Miss Charlotte, who came with another young lady, the one who did the sketch that I purchased as the design for my master piece,” he said. “She has revised and given color to it. I have it here, sir, would you like to see? Actually, I wanted to ask you—”

  “And the name of this young lady?”

  “Miss Anna Butterfield.”

  “Ah. I met her once, when she came to the door with a note. And from where does Miss Butterfield hail?”

  There was no escape. “She is the niece of the mercer Sadler,” Henri admitted. “I know what you think of the man, but this young woman is most talented and charming. There is no harm to her at all.”

  “Sadler, eh?” The old man lit his pipe and puffed on it slowly. “That thieving bastard. Well, the point is…” He paused again. “Mariette seems to think there is something between you and this girl.”

  Henri felt cornered. There was no point in trying to conceal the truth now. He cleared his throat. “Well, to be perfectly honest with you, sir, I think there might be. Although heaven knows what future there would be in it, for we are of such different worlds…”

  “It is this affection that concerns Mariette,” M. Lavalle said, puffing on his pipe.

  “I am aware that she may have observed a brief encounter between myself and Miss Butterfield,” Henri admitted. “But I can reassure you that absolutely nothing improper took place. I cannot see why Mariette should be concerned for me.”

  “Are you blind, boy?” M. Lavalle almost shouted. “You are so clever in all other respects and yet it seems entirely to have escaped your notice that my daughter is in love with you.”

  Henri’s jaw slackened with astonishment. “But she is yet a child, sir.”

  “She is fifteen, the age when many a girl is betrothed,” M. Lavalle said. “I have sensed her growing regard for you but held my counsel, thinking that the affection might become mutual, naturally, in its own time. It was only yesterday evening that she admitted it to me.”

  Henri’s head was spinning. Mariette, in love with him?

  “I will be completely honest with you,” M. Lavalle went on. “I had hoped that this might, at some time in the future, be the solution to my dilemma.”

  “The solution?” The realization hit Henri like a slap in the face: M. Lavalle expected him to marry his daughter. In fact, he appeared to be suggesting that this was a condition for Henri to inherit the business. For a few brief moments, Henri had imagined himself the luckiest journeyman alive, but now it had suddenly become so much more complicated.

  For how could he wed Mariette, the girl he had grown up with, had played childish games with, whom he’d long considered to be his younger sister? Once upon a time he would have been deeply flattered, and his mother would be thrilled. It would have been an excellent match for the once-penniless migrant boy.

  But it did not bear thinking about. Because, now, he knew what being in love really felt like.

  • • •

  All that night and at his loom the following day, Henri’s head was in turmoil. He seemed to have mislaid the compass that had guided him through life so far—hard work and obedience—and although he could see clearly where his duty now lay, he could not imagine how he could follow it. He needed to talk it through with the only person he could really trust. After work he traveled to Bethnal Green to see his mother, taking with him two hot meat pies, a baked potato from the stall on Brick Lane, and a twist of coffee grounds from M. Lavalle’s kitchen.

  As usual, he found Clothilde at her throwing wheel, working by the light of a single candle. How old and thin she looks, he thought to himself, withered from too much work and not enough leisure. Orders were hard to come by, and she was often required to deliver the thrown silk within an almost impossibly short time. She could not afford to turn work down and frequently stayed up all night to make sure she met the deadline. Apart from weekly attendances at church, she had scarcely any time and few opportunities for socializing.

  Her pale face bloomed with pleasure at the sight of him. “Henri, quel plaisir,” she whispered as they embraced. He took down two pewter plates, laying them out on the simple wooden table, and unwrapped the pies and potato from the scarf he’d tucked inside his jacket.

  “Come and eat while these are still warm, Mother. Then you can get back to your throwing and we can talk further as you work. I have brought coffee, too.”

  “What a treat. You spoil me.” She put down her spindle and came to the table. “How is life with you, my boy?” she asked, tucking into the pie with her usual hunger.

  “I have settled on the design for my master piece at last,” he said. “All I need now is Monsieur Lavalle’s agreement to use the loom for a few weeks.”

  “And may I see it?”

  “I have it here, but let us look at it when our fingers are not covered in gravy.”

  They finished their meal, and Henri lit a small fire sufficient to boil just two cups of water. After admiring the painting and praising the naturalness of its forms, she asked, “And who is your designer?”

  Henri began the long explanation of how he had obtained Anna’s first sketch and how she had been so keen to help she had recently done a new, colored version. He was aware of talking too much, of using her name too often, but could not stop: it gave him a frisson of joy every time. With a mother’s intuition, Clothilde went straight to the point.

  “This artist girl is clearly talented. But there is more, is there not, Henri?”

  He nodded, lowering his face to hide the flush flooding his cheek. “I cannot deny it. I think I am in love with her and believe she feels the same about me.”

  Clothilde smiled encouragingly, but inside her heart was sinking. How long would this latest passion last? Henri had already gained something of a reputation at church for the frequency with which he seemed to fall in love—often to the disapprobation of the girl’s parents—but it never seemed to endure. She could only hope that, one day, he would come to understand that a pretty face did not necessarily make a good wife.

  “When can I meet this young woman?” she said.

  There was no avoiding the truth, for it would surely emerge in time. He told her about the Sadler family and how he was afraid they would not consider him good enough for their niece, for whom they were probably seeking a good society match. He omitted their bigotry about French weavers and the accusation against them of illegal imports.

  As he spoke, her face clouded over. “Beware of getting ideas above your station, Son. You must give up the idea of
this girl at once,” she said.

  “But I love her, Mother. I will die if I cannot be with her.”

  She laughed at his tragic expression. “When do you not imagine yourself to be in love, Henri?” she asked. “Believe me, it will only lead to heartbreak once more.”

  It was like an intense weight in his chest, thickly compressing his breath: the knowledge that his mother was right and that his love for Anna was merely a fantasy, never to be realized because of the difference between their positions in society. He felt like running away to avoid facing the truth of her words.

  The pot was boiling. Henri added the twist of coffee grounds, stirred them, and poured the coffee through a scrap of muslin into two earthenware cups.

  “What a luxury,” she said, lifting the cup to her nose to draw in its sweet aroma.

  “There’s something else,” he said, gathering himself.

  “Go on.”

  “Which makes this even more complicated.”

  “I am all ears.”

  As simply as possible, he described the conversation he’d had with M. Lavalle the previous evening.

  Even before he’d finished, Clothilde was tutting with frustration. “Just listen to yourself,” she burst out. “I cannot believe that I have such a fool for a son. You have come from absolutely nothing, and you have been offered an extraordinary opportunity to inherit a profitable and highly respected business, a fine house, and the chance of a beautiful young woman’s hand in marriage. And you cannot decide whether to accept? You are an idiot, boy. If you were any younger, I’d put you over my knee and knock some sense into you.”

  “But I do not love Mariette,” he said, his heart breaking quietly.

  Her face was severe now, her voice uncompromising. “It is time to put aside such childish notions, Henri. Few of us have the luxury of marrying for love and many would envy being the object of Mariette’s affections. She is charming and pretty, and her father is one of the most well-respected silk masters in Spitalfields. What could possibly be wrong with that? You will grow to love the girl; of that I have no doubt. You cannot afford not to.”

  The candle began to gutter; it was almost burned out.

  “Ignore my words at your peril, mon fils,” she went on. “God has handed you the blessed chance of a good life. I beg you, do not turn it down.”

  As he trudged the two miles back to Wood Street in a fine drizzle, Henri could think of little else but Anna. He could not imagine never being able to see her, never again looking into her blue-green eyes or experiencing that intense shimmer of affinity and unspoken understanding.

  “I love her!” he shouted. “How can I give that up?”

  His words echoed around the empty streets. They gave no reply, but he knew what the answer must be and where his obligations lay; his respect for M. Lavalle and all that he had done for him, the responsibility he felt for his mother, and the honor due to the memory of his lost family—all this added up to a duty that he must obey.

  It was a double bind: if he turned down the chance to inherit M. Lavalle’s business, he would be throwing away the very opportunity which might enable him to rise in society and have even the slightest prospect of marrying a girl like Anna. And yet he could not inherit unless he was denied the chance of any future with her.

  “I am damned if I do, and damned if I don’t,” he muttered angrily as it began to rain more heavily.

  • • •

  He arrived back in Wood Street, soaked to the skin, to find a grim-faced M. Lavalle reading the newspaper. In silence, he passed it to Henri.

  CUTTERS RAID

  November 24, 1760

  At Bethnal Green, on Tuesday evening, a crowd of unruly journeymen claiming to be members of the Bold Defiance broke open the house of one John Poor, weaver, threatening him and his wife with a musket and destroying many of his looms, cutting to pieces much valuable silk.

  They claim that he was working for M. Chauvet and had “broken the book,” referring to the Book of Prices, which they are seeking to impose for their work. Ten men are being held at Newgate, pending trial.

  As he read the stark words, Henri felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Is this something to do with Guy?” he asked.

  M. Lavalle nodded his head. “His mother called earlier to see me. She is in a desperate state and wanted me to help. He got in with the wrong crowd, just as I feared, and went out on the cutting raid.”

  Henri had heard tell, of course, about the groups of journeymen so desperate that they had broken into the premises of silk masters who failed to pay the going rates and slashed the silk warps on their looms. But surely Guy would not undertake anything so dangerous?

  “What happened? Why on earth was Guy there?” His mouth was so dry that he could barely force the words past his lips. He began to shiver as M. Lavalle finished filling and lighting his pipe.

  “It is a bad business, I’m afraid. He was with a gang going to cut the silk in the house of a weaver—this man Poor, who is working for Master Chauvet. Someone threatened Poor’s wife with a gun. Guy was caught and arrested, and he’s in jail. His mother’s been told that if he is found guilty, he could be transported or even hanged.”

  Henri’s breath seemed to stop in his chest. Chauvet was powerful and notorious for banning his workers from joining the weavers’ clubs or paying any levies. There had even been riots outside his house after which he’d employed his own guard, which is probably why they attacked one of his weavers instead. But why had Guy got involved? Surely he couldn’t have been the one with a gun? He was hotheaded sometimes, but never violent. It was impossible to comprehend.

  “Saleté! That’s terrible news.” His own concerns seemed now so inconsequential, so frivolous.

  There was no escaping the grim image of his friend, cold, frightened, and hungry, shackled in a damp and dismal cell with heaven knows how many other dangerous and diseased men. He might be headstrong and a bit foolish, but he was no criminal. Like himself, Guy had worked his way up from nothing, completed his apprenticeship with scarcely a blot on his record, had managed to rent a room and a loom, and gained a few good contracts as a journeyman. Of course he was young and passionate and, like Henri, fell in love with every girl in sight, but he’d often shared his dreams of owning a house and running his own business, of marrying, having a family, of living a long and prosperous life.

  Now, that life could simply be snuffed out on the decision of a judge.

  “Can the church elders do anything to help?” he asked.

  M. Lavalle shook his head. “We can try to get him bailed, but I doubt that’d do any good. We shall visit him in prison and see what we can do to make his stay more comfortable. But in the end, there is nothing anyone can do to divert the course of the law.”

  Just as he uttered these words, almost as if to emphasize them, there was a loud hammering at the front door.

  “By Christ, who can that be at this time of night?” M. Lavalle muttered.

  The answer came immediately. “Open up, open up. It’s the Guards. If you do not, we will break down the door.”

  M. Lavalle opened it, and without any by-your-leave, five burly men in grubby uniforms and heavy boots tramped past him into the parlor. The room felt suddenly very small and cramped.

  The tallest of the men, obviously their leader, fixed Henri with a fearsome stare. “Henri Vendôme?”

  “Yes, sir,” Henri said, trying to keep the quake from his voice.

  “We have reason to believe that you have been consorting with a man charged with murder,” the big man said. “Guy Lemaitre?”

  “He is a fellow journeyman, a member of our church, sir. I have known him most of my life.”

  “You were a signatory to this Book of Prices?”

  “Yes, sir. I believed it might ease potential hardship and unrest.”

&nb
sp; “Well, you were wrong, lad. Your signature is next to that of Lemaitre and others who have been involved in criminal activity. Where were you last Tuesday evening?”

  “At home here, sir. My master, Monsieur Lavalle, can attest to that.”

  M. Lavalle was hidden from Henri’s view by the five huge men, but his voice was strong. “Indeed I can, and would be prepared to swear on the Bible to that effect. I have known Henri Vendôme for more than ten years, and he is a God-fearing, law-abiding young man who would not even consider becoming involved in anything illegal. Your presence in this house is unwelcome, sirs,” he went on. “And I now beg you to leave immediately before you disturb my young daughter.”

  “Very well.” The leader turned back. “Just you make sure you stay well away from trouble, laddie.” He pushed his face so close that Henri could smell the meaty, beery breath. “Or I swear I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure that you follow your friend to the gallows.”

  The other men laughed and the four pushed past M. Lavalle so roughly that he had to hold on to the door to prevent himself falling.

  15

  It is a good plan to have books and pictures on the center table, and scattered about your drawing room. You must, of course, converse with each caller, but these trifles are an excellent pastime and serve as subjects for conversation.

  —The Lady’s Book of Manners

  For Anna, the days following her visit to Wood Street seemed to pass at a snail’s pace.

  She had read and reread Henri’s letter until the paper became worn and the folds began to tear. The sweet intimacy of those last words left her breathless:

  It is not easy to make the weave of all those beautiful curves but as I work I think of you, Anna. I hope we can meet again soon.

  She pressed the paper to her heart. That moment was real, she thought to herself. He feels as I do. She pictured him at his loom, working on the complex system of knots and lashes needed to create the design; smelled the sweet, musty, nutty smell of the silk; and felt the rough, uneven boards of the loom loft under her feet.