The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  • • •

  Two weeks before Christmas, Henri completed his master piece.

  “It is a triumph,” M. Lavalle said, clapping him several times on the back. “You have fulfilled my highest expectations, lad. I cannot imagine any circumstances under which you will not be accepted by the Company in January. Welcome, Master Vendôme.”

  As the old man scrutinized the weave, using his small magnifying glass, the colors and shapes glittered and glinted in the firelight, giving an appearance that the stems and flowers were actually stirring in a gentle breeze. Seeing the silk through his master’s eyes for the first time, Henri realized that it was indeed beautiful and the naturalism of the lines extraordinary.

  “This is of exceptional quality, Henri,” M. Lavalle said. “The technical complexity is utterly unlike anything I have ever seen, even from the great designer-weavers of the old days, Leman and the rest. And yet it has a wonderfully contemporary look. It’ll be snapped up by fashionable ladies and become the next big thing, I’ll be bound.” He laughed. “You’ll be weaving nothing but yards of this very design for the next few months. You might become sick of the sight of it, but you will certainly make a good start on your fortune.”

  Henri felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. His master’s praise was rarely so fulsome.

  M. Lavalle put down the silk and took up his clay pipe, charged it, lit it, and took a long draw. “You have a great future ahead of you, my son, if that is what I may call you?”

  He means “son-in-law,” Henri thought to himself. It felt comforting, as though, after all, the mantle could sit quite easily about his shoulders. “I am proud that you should regard me as such,” he said.

  “Daughter, come and see what our clever boy has produced,” M. Lavalle called. “And bring a new bottle of port and three glasses so that we can celebrate.”

  Mariette held the silk to the light. “Oh…my…goodness,” she whispered on an indrawn breath. “You wove this?”

  Before he knew it, she had wrapped her arms about him, in a surprisingly powerful embrace. He could feel the warmth of her body against his and her heart beating against his chest. In the joy of the moment, he wondered whether he could, in fact, fall in love with the girl.

  Loosening her hold at last, she turned to pick up the silk, examining the design and discovering, with a delighted laugh, the tiny beetle clinging to the curled leaf. She unfurled the length and wrapped it around her waist, like a skirt, doing a slow flirtatious twirl before the two men, wriggling her hips and fluttering her eyelashes, laughing all the while.

  “I must have a dress of it, Papa. For my first ball gown.”

  “We’ll have to see,” he muttered.

  “And you shall be my dancing partner, Henri.”

  She took hold of his hand and then, humming the tune of a sprightly dance, began to skip around the room, pulling him along with her. M. Lavalle watched from his chair, beaming with approval and clapping out the rhythm as the couple made their way across the parlor and back again. Henri felt clumsy and ungainly but was drawn along by the sheer elation of Mariette’s enjoyment and his own relief at finally having completed what was surely the most important piece of work in his life.

  As they danced, the fire blazing cheerfully, its light glinting off the paneling, and the heat of the port traveling through his veins, his thoughts turned to Guy. The desperate situation faced by his friend only served to emphasize his own good fortune. Fate could be so capricious; one’s hold on life so fragile. But, at least for the moment, this was his: his world, his place, his people, and, in time, he would wed Mariette. They loved him; he loved them. This was where he belonged.

  How could he have imagined otherwise?

  There was no alternative but to acknowledge the truth that had lurked in his heart like a monster: there was no future in his friendship with Anna. He’d hoped that, by ignoring it, this truth might somehow go away, but now, he knew, the issue must be settled sooner rather than later. It was only fair to the girl, and he needed to move on, to accept the future that had been planned for him.

  Later that evening, he took up his quill and, with a profound sadness, began to write.

  Dear Anna,

  The work is nearly finished and I write to thank you again. The fabric looks well and my master is pleased. But of the matter you ask me I cannot help you more. I am sorry. You are an artist of good talent and I wish you success, but I know that we must not meet again.

  H

  17

  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; and if the room is warm and the dinner a long one, she will probably pay the penalty of her folly by having a headache all the evening.

  —The Lady’s Book of Manners

  The letter arrived with the rest of the family’s mail, brought by Betty to the breakfast table. As she recognized the writing, Anna felt a knot of excitement growing in her chest, almost stopping her breath.

  “Who is it from?” Aunt Sarah inquired, peering across the table.

  “A friend from home,” she lied.

  “Not bad news, I hope? Here, take the letter knife.”

  “Thank you, Aunt, but I will open it later. I do not wish to disturb my delicious breakfast.”

  Her appetite had vanished, and she struggled to eat the slice of meat pie already on her plate. At last the meal was over and she ran to her room with Lizzie hot on her heels.

  “Later, Cousin,” Anna said, turning her away. “You must allow me my privacy.”

  She tore open the letter, and at first she could not understand what it said. We must not meet again. As the meaning became clear, a wave of nausea coursed through her body.

  “No!” she gasped, throwing her face into the bolster to muffle her sobs. Why would he write such a thing? There must have been a terrible misunderstanding.

  After a while, she sat up and read the few lines over and over again, barely able to believe what she was seeing. What could she possibly have done to deserve such a final, terrible rejection? In her mind, she examined every moment that she could remember of their few meetings: at the church, at Miss Charlotte’s, and then at Wood Street.

  She recalled the moment at the bottom of the weaving loft ladder and his words: Please let us find a way. Surely she cannot have imagined the powerful feelings she had believed to be so utterly mutual at that moment? Her mind veered wildly, visualizing possible scenarios. Had Aunt Sarah forced Charlotte into admitting who they had visited that afternoon? Had she then gone to see Henri to warn him off? No, she felt sure that Miss Charlotte would never betray her like that. And Aunt Sarah deigning to visit a French weaver at his house? Very unlikely.

  She went to the window and peered down into the square, to the spot where she had encountered Henri and Guy, sitting on the wall beneath the trees, where she had once seen his figure approaching the house, delivering his first letter. How long ago it seemed.

  A few flakes of early snow were falling from a leaden sky, and people were scurrying about their business with cloaks and shawls wrapped tightly around heads and shoulders. She turned and picked up the letter again, reading its final phrase: I know that we must not meet again.

  “Must not,” she spoke out loud. Now, she understood: It is not what he wants, nor I. He has been told, perhaps by M. Lavalle, that our friendship is unwise or inappropriate. Just as she knew, deep in her own heart, the social barriers were just too high to breach. It was a stupid fantasy, she said to herself. And he is just being practical. Perhaps it is for the best.

  But none of this sensible reasoning could ease the desolation in her heart. Several times she heard Lizzie’s feet on the stair and sent her away, claiming a headache. At lunchtime, Betty arrived with a bowl of broth and some bread, which was welcome. Worn out with weeping, Anna
slept for most of the afternoon, and took supper in her room. When Betty came to take away the dishes, she brought a message from Aunt Sarah.

  Dearest Niece,

  I hope you are feeling better? You will not have forgotten, I am sure, that you are bidden to Ludgate Hill tomorrow evening, for dinner?

  She had forgotten, and the reminder was unwelcome. Seeing Charlie again was the very last thing on earth she wanted. But she could not maintain the pretense of illness for another full day; she would have to pull herself together, paste on a smile, and face the world once more.

  • • •

  Halfway through dinner the following evening, Anna discovered, rather to her surprise, that she was quite enjoying herself. There were others at the table—a friend of Susannah’s with her parents, and another mercer and his wife. She’d accepted a glass of claret and the conversation had been lively. Charlie asked how her art was going, and she’d told him about meeting Mr. Gainsborough.

  “Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Charlie exclaimed. “Met him in Bath when he came to look at Pa. What a genius with faces.”

  “And landscapes,” Anna added, after which they had a discussion about which was the more demanding for an artist, portraiture or nature, in which several other guests took part. It was the liveliest and most interesting social interaction she’d enjoyed so far in the city.

  After dinner, the ladies withdrew and gossiped about fashion and the latest romances of their friends, which bored her into silence, but the gentlemen soon arrived and Susannah was encouraged to play the harpsichord.

  “She is very talented, your sister,” she whispered to Charles, seated beside her.

  “Indeed. My mother was a fine singer, I’m told, but alas this musical inheritance seems to have passed me by.”

  “I am sure you have other talents,” she replied, turning back to the music. A few moments later she felt his hand touch hers, resting on the arm of the chair. His long fingers took her own and squeezed them gently. She felt her face flushing—perhaps The Lady’s Book of Manners was correct about taking too much wine at dinner, she thought to herself—and wondered what to do next.

  Susannah stopped playing, and Charlie removed his hand to applaud. But clearly he seemed to have recovered his nerve and she feared what might follow were they to find themselves alone. But she still had no idea how to respond.

  The moment arrived: the other guests went to take their leave, and the rest of the family followed into the hallway to bid them farewell. She and Charles were left in the drawing room, standing together at the fireplace.

  “Dearest Anna,” he began, taking her hand and gripping it firmly in his own rather sweaty palm. “You probably know what my feelings are toward you?”

  She nodded, her head in a spin. “I believe I do, sir.”

  “And you probably understood my intention when I came to tea at Spital Square last week? I regret that I was much daunted by the consequence of the moment, but now I am determined.” He took a deep breath and blurted, in a rush, “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  There it was, the question she’d been dreading. If she refused him, the Hinchliffes would be insulted and her aunt and uncle infuriated. She looked up at the face that had now become so familiar. This time, his eyes were warm, lit by a fond smile, the long nose and Adam’s apple far less obtrusive. The atmosphere of this room, so comfortably furnished and lit with the warm glow of firelight, was seductive. She had enjoyed his company this evening. Perhaps, given time, they could develop a comfortable friendship, even love of a kind.

  She took a deep breath and began her reply, not even knowing what it would be. “Dearest Charles,” she said. “It is I who is honored. But you know, do you not, that I am a penniless vicar’s daughter? I could bring no wealth or property to this union.”

  “I am fully apprised of your situation, but it makes no difference to my feelings for you.” He took her hand to his lips and held it there.

  “You will know, then, that my father has lately been widowed,” she said. “And, as he is so far away, you will have to write to him.”

  “Should I not ask your uncle?”

  “I think my father should be the one to agree. I am quite certain he would be most delighted to give his permission. But could you give me leave to tell him myself first? I shall be going home for Christmas. Would you mind terribly if we waited until my return before announcing the happy news?”

  She found herself in his arms, his head bent so that his cheek touched hers, his breath on her neck. It was not an unpleasant feeling, comforting in a way.

  “My dearest girl, you have made me the happiest man in the world,” he whispered. “Of course we can wait for your father. Until then, it will be our little secret.”

  • • •

  The approaching Mercers’ Company dinner brought a palpable air of tension to the Sadler household. As well as being the annual event at which the positions of high office were decided, it was also an opportunity for Company members to display their most sumptuous fabrics—in the garments worn by themselves and their wives. Sarah had commissioned a new dressmaker for her gown, but each time she returned from one of her fitting sessions, she appeared more and more dissatisfied.

  “Why did you not use Miss Charlotte, as usual?” Lizzie asked innocently. What she didn’t know was that Anna had overheard her aunt saying that she wouldn’t use her again because she was “unreliable,” and ever since had felt a bitter shame for having inadvertently caused her friend to lose a valued customer.

  “I almost wish I had indeed done so, my dear,” Aunt Sarah grumbled. “This new one doesn’t seem to have the skills or the patience. I am starting to wonder whether my gown will ever be ready in time.”

  At last the great day dawned, and Aunt Sarah spent most of the afternoon having her nails manicured, her high wig dressed, and lavish makeup applied. At last the preparation was finished and the family gathered to admire. The new outfit—in shades of turquoise—was certainly eye-catching, Anna thought, if a touch unsubtle. Joseph appeared in a brightly patterned brocade waistcoat and long coat in the latest style, looking tightly buttoned and uncomfortable.

  “I do hope Pa gets voted in as Upper Bailiff,” William muttered after they had departed. “He’ll be like a bear with a sore head if they choose someone else.”

  Lizzie regarded him with alarm. “It’s already been agreed, hasn’t it?”

  “These things are never certain till they’re signed and sealed,” he replied mysteriously.

  Later, after Lizzie had excused herself from the table, Anna found herself alone with him. “What did you mean about things not being certain for Uncle?” she asked.

  “There is always so much jockeying for position in these organizations,” he said. “You have to play the game, and I am not sure whether Pa has studied the rule book sufficiently.”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed then.” They had barely exchanged ten words since the night they met in the office, but this short conversation emboldened her. “How are things with you, William?”

  “Things?” he said, pouring himself another glass of claret and offering her one. She gladly accepted.

  “I mean, are you now free of those threats you spoke of? I was worried for you.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Coz,” he said. “Let me assure you that all is well.”

  “Have you stopped… I mean, have you mended your ways? And have you paid back the money you stole from the business yet?”

  “Do you take me for an idiot?” he barked, his expression sharp, defiant.

  He took a large gulp from his glass and stared into it as if studying its color before looking up and adding in a more conciliatory tone, “I do appreciate your continued silence, of course.”

  “I may call in the favor sometime.”

  “A tryst with lover boy Charles, is
it, that you want cover for?”

  She was about to laugh but then remembered that Charles was his friend, so she smothered it.

  “It’ll be a good match, you know. He likes the ponies a tad too much and he’s had a bit of trouble with unpaid debts recently, but who am I to judge? Still, he’s extremely well connected with the great and good, and I’m sure he will become very wealthy in time. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “I heard a rumor that he’s going to propose. Will you accept him?”

  The directness of the question caught her off guard. “He is certainly very charming and I thank you for your advice.”

  William finished his wine, stood up, and bowed. “Always at your service, madam.”

  They wished each other good night.

  Later she woke to hear the carriage arrive, followed by doors banging and raised voices in the room below, but fell asleep again and thought nothing more of it. Her aunt and uncle were safely home, at least.

  • • •

  Next morning, Betty told them that Joseph and William had already taken breakfast and were now in a meeting, not to be disturbed. Aunt Sarah was still in bed, feeling poorly.

  “I expect she took too much brandy,” Lizzie snickered.

  Two hours later, Anna encountered Betty preparing warmed milk and biscuits for her aunt. “Let me take them up,” she said. “I will try to discover what ails her.”

  Her knock was met with a muffled moan and, when she entered the chamber, the shutters were still closed and the room fuggy with overnight air. In the gloom, the sight that beheld her was pitiful. Aunt Sarah’s face, amid the huddle of bedclothes, was distorted with misery, her cheeks raw and her eyes reddened from weeping.

  Anna put down the tray and sat beside the bed. “Whatever has befallen you? Are you not well?”

  The inquiry precipitated a fit of wracking sobs. She took Sarah’s hand and waited. After nursing her mother through many ailments and her final illness, she understood that simply by being there, as an undemanding presence, could provide comfort.