by Liz Trenow
At last the sobs abated and Sarah fell back onto the pillow, exhausted. She accepted Anna’s offer of warm milk and took a few sips.
“We are lost, my dear,” she sobbed. “All is lost.”
“I do not understand your meaning, Aunt. Is it something that happened last evening?”
Her aunt nodded and sobbed some more.
“It is finished,” she said. “Your uncle is not to be Upper Bailiff. He is utterly disgraced.”
“Disgraced? For what?” Anna’s mind slipped back to the conversation about French silk. Surely it could not be that, after all these weeks?
The story emerged slowly, between Aunt Sarah’s outbursts of desperate weeping and moments of allowing herself to be comforted. It seemed that on entering the Mercers’ Hall, Joseph had been handed a note. He put it into his pocket, unread, assuming that it was simply the confirmation that, after the dinner, he would be called to take his vows as Upper Bailiff. The dinner proceeded as expected but, when the time came, an entirely different name was called out; another rose to take the applause and receive the much-anticipated honors. All eyes were on Joseph and Sarah, of course, who were becoming more and more embarrassed and entirely unable to understand what was going on.
“I wished the floor would open up and swallow us whole,” Sarah said. “Your poor dear uncle was so astonished and confused, he could not think what to do.”
Eventually, he stirred himself and strode out of the hall, followed by Sarah. “Such a long, long walk, my dear, past all those sneering faces. My poor dear man died the death of a thousand insults last night. I fear for his sanity, I really do.”
“I assume that was what the note was about?”
Sarah nodded.
“What did it say?”
“It said…” She broke down again, unable to continue, waving a hand toward the dressing table. The sheet of notepaper—once crumpled and now smoothed out—was headed with the Mercers’ Company crest and signed by the outgoing Upper Bailiff. Anna pried open the shutter so that she could read:
Dear Mr. Sadler,
In light of recently received reports that your company has once again been illegally importing French silks, presumably to evade paying the proper import tax, we regret to inform you that your bid to become Upper Bailiff is hereby revoked and, furthermore, that you will no longer be a member of the Administration Committee.
It is also my sorry duty to inform you that the tax authorities have been alerted and will no doubt be in contact forthwith.
If you avoid criminal charges on this matter, you may remain as a member of the Company but only on your solemn oath that you will henceforth abide strictly by the law and agree never again to bring the Company into disrepute.
The letter was shocking in its directness. If this was the payback for William’s duplicity, for which her uncle had already taken the blame, why had it taken them so long to punish him? And why do it this way, humiliating him so publicly?
“Is this true?” Anna asked, feigning innocence. “This accusation about the French silks?”
Her aunt, who was by now sitting up and nibbling on a biscuit, nodded dolefully. “He says there was a bookkeeping error a few weeks ago, which unfortunately led to the tax remaining unaccounted for. It was a terrible shock at the time, but he went over the whole thing with the Administration Committee and they seemed to accept his apology. He cannot understand what this latest complaint is about.”
The sour smell of suspicion hung in the air. Everything was so complex, so murky. What if, despite his reassurance to her last night, William was still gambling? And what if, in his desperation, he had continued to cook the books, claiming to have paid the tax but actually creaming off the money to pay off his gambling debts? If that was the case, it was little wonder that Joseph had been so utterly surprised by last night’s debacle.
“What do you think will happen, Aunt?”
“Joseph and William are at this very moment trying to ascertain what could have possibly gone wrong, and after that they will have to contact the Company and the tax authorities to try to make amends.”
“What is this about criminal charges?”
“That is what terrifies me most, my dear. But Mr. Sadler reassures me that if the money is paid in full, he will be able to avert such a threat.”
“Will there be much to pay?”
Sarah sighed. “These things are not for us women to know. Our lot is to wait and accept our fate.” She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, despite the fug in the room. “You must leave me now and send Betty up so that I may ready myself to face the world. But please”—she took Anna’s hand and pressed it urgently—“give me your word that you will not breathe a word of this to Lizzie. She adores her father and it would upset her so to learn that he is facing this trouble.”
Anna promised.
• • •
After the shock of his disgrace at the Mercers’ dinner, Joseph seemed to disappear from view, locking himself in the office to huddle over his desk both day and night, occasionally appearing in his best wig and waistcoat and bustling out, to return only late in the evening after everyone else was abed.
Sarah spent long hours in her chamber, rising pasty-faced in her nightgown for meals, and then pecking at her plate with the appetite of a sparrow. Christmas was almost upon them, but no puddings were being stirred, no goose hanging in the larder. A dark cloud had descended on the household and it seemed nothing could lift its oppressive gloom.
A few days after the debacle, a letter arrived at breakfast. Anna recognized the hand but waited until she was alone in the dining room before opening it.
Dear Miss Butterfield,
I regret to inform you that due to unforeseen circumstances it will not be possible to honor our agreement. I would be grateful if, to avoid unnecessary embarrassment, you would not make any future contact.
With best regards,
Charles Hinchliffe
She wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, the language so stuffily formal. And then she became furious. Just who did Charles Hinchliffe think he was, so high and mighty, so viciously dismissive? He was no saint either, if William was to be believed, with his gambling habit and casual attitude toward his studies, both of which were no doubt being funded by his wealthy father.
To be written off so heedlessly, not just by him but apparently by the whole family, was not only hurtful but depressingly reflective of the shallowness of London society, where one is only of worth when one is useful to someone else. The letter brought home the enormity of her uncle’s disgrace, the way it had cast a shadow over the whole family.
Her thoughts were interrupted by William returning to the dining room.
“Did I leave my…?” he started before noticing the letter in her hand. “Is it bad news?”
“It’s from Charles. It seems his interest in me has suddenly waned. I cannot imagine why,” she said with a wry smile.
“The bastard.” William sat down beside her. “May I see?” He took the letter and scanned it quickly. “Christ,” he said, thumping the table until the silverware clattered. “I didn’t think they’d throw us off like this, so completely. They’ve been friends of the family for years. And you, practically engaged… How dare he impugn your honor like this?” He put his head in his hands. “Oh God! What have I done?”
“It’s not all your fault, is it?” she said quietly.
“Had I owned up, we would have been paying off the customs duty week by week as Father promised the Company in the first place, and they wouldn’t now be demanding such a large whack, not to mention the fine.”
“A fine, too?”
“Four hundred pounds.”
“That’s an impossible sum. Wherever could you find that?”
He shook his head.
“And what happens if you can�
�t pay it?”
“Bankruptcy, probably.”
The word felt like a slap. Anna knew what it meant, of course, but could hardly imagine it applying to Sadler & Son. “What would happen then?”
“Unless we can pay off the debts by the start of January, we’ll have to sell the business.”
“And the house?”
“That, too. It’s owned by the business.”
“But where would we—I mean, you—live?”
He sighed. “Where do other people live? We’d have to rent, I suppose. Get other jobs to pay for it.”
“Surely you have plenty of stock you could sell, to help pay off the debt?”
“I’ve tried that.”
“You tried what?”
“Selling the rest of the French silks to an out-of-town mercer. But someone recognized them and traced them back to us. It only made matters worse—more duties to pay and another fine. The only silk we have left is what we’ve had on the stocks for months, years even, before everyone went into mourning for the old king. No one wants it. Fashion is so bloody fickle.” He sighed again. “It’s such bad timing. Pa was about to bid for a commission to supply silk for the trousseau for the new queen.”
“There is to be a new queen? I hadn’t heard.”
“No one has. It’s just speculation. They won’t let young George stay unmarried for long, mark my words. He has to have a male heir, remember. All the mercers in the city are poised to make their fortune when the wedding’s announced.”
“Goodness. I wonder who he’ll choose?”
“There’s a rumor about a young German princess. But it doesn’t really matter, just so long as we are ready to offer something sumptuous and gloriously fashionable. Which, of course, we won’t be now.”
They fell into silence. He picked up Charles’s letter and studied its few words again. “I’ve made such a mess of everything. And you got caught up in it—your betrothal and everything.”
“Please do not trouble yourself about that, Cousin. I know he’s your friend, but to be honest, I do not love him. And his views are so different from mine.”
“But he’s such a good match. What will you do instead? Or do you have another beau in mind?”
“Please do not worry about me. I’ll just go home and live a quiet life in the country.”
“Haste thee to a nunnery?”
“Not exactly.”
Having said it, she realized that her glib remark was the truth: she was desperate to get back to Suffolk, to see her father and dear Jane. Those familiar paths through the marshes, the sound of the sea. “I didn’t know you read Shakespeare.”
“We men have hidden depths.”
“Hidden so deep as to be invisible much of the time.”
It was his turn to laugh. “I’ll miss your tart turn of phrase, Coz. I’ve found it quite refreshing. A girl of your intelligence won’t be happy in the country for long. And what about those plans to learn about silk design?”
“Oh, I dare say I will find someone to teach me,” she said, failing to convince herself. “There’s a thriving silk trade in Norwich, I’m told.”
“Come back and see us sometime, won’t you?”
A girl of your intelligence won’t be happy in the country for long. Anna pondered William’s words with a growing sense of despondency, recalling how bored she had sometimes felt in the village, how energized by the prospect of leaving. What if he was right? And yet she had found little contentment or pleasure here in the city.
Was there anywhere that she would find long-term happiness?
18
He that places his supreme delight in a tavern, and is uneasy till he has drank away his senses, renders himself soon unfit for everything else: frolick at night is followed with pains and sickness in the morning, and then what was before the poison is administered as the cure.
—Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
Guy’s trial was set for the first Monday of the New Year. It was still bitterly cold, and the snow that fell on New Year’s Day had compacted into ugly, brown ice on the streets, making it treacherous to venture outdoors. In the unheated weaving loft, the boys’ breath clouded the air and their fingers swiftly became numbed, making it impossible to throw the shuttle firmly or feel for lost threads. They had to take frequent breaks to warm themselves by the kitchen range.
On the day before the trial, Henri delivered his master piece, carefully rolled and wrapped against the weather, to the Weavers’ Hall in Basinghall Street. An officious clerk made him wait half an hour while producing a form on which he was required to write his name, age, address, and signature.
As he read the address, the clerk’s demeanor thawed. “A good man, Monsieur Lavalle,” he said. “And a fine weaver. Was he your master too?”
Henri nodded.
“We shall be most interested to see your piece,” the clerk said, smiling at last.
Henri left the building so warmed by this encouragement that he failed to notice until almost back at Wood Street that his jacket buttons were still undone and his hat and gloves still in his pocket.
• • •
M. Lavalle gave Henri time off to attend the trial. “You may not be able to alter the course of justice, but it will give the lad succor to see a friendly face. But have a care,” he added. “You are not allowed to speak in the court, or they could arrest you for contempt.”
When he reached the courthouse, there was such a crowd that Henri feared they might be waiting for another execution. On a bulletin board pinned outside, he found a list of all the trials taking place that day and, after much desperate scanning, spied what he sought: Guy’s name was among a list of more than twenty, including even some women, all indicted for breaking and entering, damage to property, carrying a dangerous weapon, and intent to murder at the house of a weaver named Thomas Poor. Every journeyman in the area, it seemed, had turned out to support their fellow weavers, and they were in an ugly mood.
The crush was so great it was impossible to reach the public gallery, so Henri waited in the corridor outside. Proceedings were slow to start because every official pronouncement was met with angry jeers and chants of “Justice for the innocent.” At last the court was silenced and, as the trial began, news passed in whispers through the crowd.
“It’s John Valline that man Poor’s talking about now. They called him a son of a whore, and threatened to break down the door, he says.”
“Is it Poor still talking?”
“He says they cut the cane and all the silk and the tackle, bent the reed double, and twisted it like a worm.”
“He says they attacked him even though he’d paid the committee money.”
“Those bastards. They’re saying Valline was riotous.”
John D’Oyle followed, facing the same charges. It seemed worse for him, because when Poor’s wife took the witness box, she claimed that D’Oyle was among seven others who entered her bedchamber, and he threatened her with a pistol and a sword.
“A bitch of a whore, D’Oyle called her.”
“Sounds fair enough to me.”
There was a long hiatus.
“What’s happening now?” Henri whispered. He could barely breathe for the anxiety, which felt as though ropes were binding his chest.
“It’s Lemaitre,” the word came.
“He’s my friend. Let me through,” Henri shouted, barging his way to the front of the packed public gallery. No one stopped him. At last he was able to see down onto the courtroom, and he watched in horror as Guy was manhandled into a wooden pen, called the “dock,” by two heavy-set guards at either side. Although now dressed in decent garments his friend was barely recognizable: deathly pale and thin as a skeleton.
The judge, wearing a long wig and heavy, red cloak tr
immed with fur, addressed Guy in a slow, sonorous tone: “Guy Lemaitre, you are charged that on December tenth you did, with force and arms, feloniously break by force into the house of Thomas Poor, with intent to cut and destroy a certain quantity of silk on a loom, and also with intent to cut and destroy a loom, with other tackle used in the weaving trade. Furthermore, that in this house you did, with others, cut and destroy a hundred yards of bombazine, the property of Thomas Horton, and were with others who threatened the life of a woman with a pistol. How do you plead?”
Guy gazed around the court with unfocused eyes. One of the guards shook his arm and the judge barked, “Mr. Lemaitre, you are required to answer the question. How do you plead?”
Guy’s reply was barely audible. “Not guilty, sir.”
The weaver, Mr. Poor, came back into the witness box and gave his statements, much as before. Henri’s heart lifted when he said, “Apart from D’Oyle and Valline, who I knew by their voices, it was so dark that night it was impossible for me or anybody else to distinguish any man.”
“But you claim to know this man?”
“I do, sir,” Poor answered. “I do know his face well from the committee what forced us to give money to them. The Bold Defiance, they call themselves.”
The son of Poor, a sickly-looking creature heavily marked with the pox, claimed to have seen Guy in the house that night. “I’d know the son of a bitch anywhere,” he said. “He’d threatened us before, with the Book of Prices. That if we didn’t sign, it would be all the worse for us.”
The defense seemed weak, with only two people coming forward to give evidence that Guy was of good character and had never been in trouble before. If only they had asked me, Henri thought. I’d have told them in more certain terms. But then he remembered the visit of the Guards that night: he was already a marked man, and his testimony might have been considered unreliable. Although the lawyers pressed the witnesses in cross-examination, it seemed none was prepared to testify to his claim that he had not actually been in the house of the weaver that night.
