The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  Friends from the French church brought him food, drink, and clean clothes, claiming they would soon see him released. They even raised funds for him to have a single cell, for which he was tearfully grateful. At least he was now free of the threat of assault by other prisoners and could enjoy some privacy when visitors arrived. It also meant that he had a chance of keeping his blankets and clothes from being stolen.

  A few days later, a legal clerk arrived at the prison, uneasy and out of place in full wig, smart silk coat, and pristine white leggings. He admitted he was not a full-fledged lawyer and that, although he was an expert in French law, he would have to take advice on any variations there might be with the English statute. For an hour he quizzed Henri about the events of that night: who he was with, what precisely he had witnessed, what was done and said by whom, and the exact timing of when he had left the group before they went into the pub.

  Henri was still so shocked at his situation that his brain had gone to pulp; he could remember barely anything. He spent the next few days trying to focus, writing down everything he could recall, so that when the lawyer returned a few days later, a far more coherent picture seemed to emerge. The clerk seemed to think that if they could locate the man or the whore, and if either agreed to testify, they could prove that he was not with the group inside the Dolphin, and there was a chance the charges might lifted. It sounded to Henri as though his freedom, even his very life, hung upon the testimony of two strangers who were unlikely ever to be traced. The encounter left him feeling more depressed than ever.

  His moods swung violently between long spells of abject misery and despair and shorter spells of cautious optimism. He had already survived so much in his life, and his good friends would surely make certain that he did not suffer the same fate as Guy. At night, however, the doubts crept into the cell like a malign vapor, and he would find himself shaking with fear.

  The visits from his mother and M. Lavalle were the hardest to cope with. The look of sorrow and disappointment in his master’s face and Clothilde’s expression of raw concern were almost unbearable. They tried to cheer him, but his sense of shame was so great he could barely bring himself to respond, let alone be comforted. M. Lavalle said that Mariette had badgered him to allow her to come, but he’d decided it would be too upsetting for her. Instead he produced a note, which Henri opened later; he broke down into sobs as he read her words: “N’oubliez pas que je suis toujours ton amie,” she wrote. Never forget that I am your friend.

  He was pleased to see the apprentice Benjamin, who arrived with a parcel of Cook’s special meat pies and some fresh apples, two bottles of beer, and a long woolen scarf that Mariette had knitted for him. After he’d sated his appetite, Henri quizzed him for news of the family, but the usually garrulous boy seemed reluctant to expand on what he already knew. “They are well,” he said. “We are working all hours to cover the work. The Master lends a hand when he can and even the drawboy is learning to weave. Mariette sends her love.”

  “Any news of Guy Lemaitre?” Henri asked. “Has his appeal come to court yet?”

  In the gloom of the cell, he could see Benjamin’s face blench. “This is what I have come to tell you,” he said in a quiet voice. “The Master said I must. It is bad, I am afraid. Your friend was executed early yesterday morning—hanged with the others outside the Dolphin.”

  Although Henri had been half expecting this dread news, the harsh reality of it took several moments to sink in. The beer and meat pie he’d consumed with such gusto a few moments earlier seemed to curdle in his stomach. Guy, his friend, hanging on the end of a rope? The boy he had grown up with, sat with at school, played childhood pranks with, chased girls with, who in dark times had been there for Henri, and Henri for him…now dead?

  “Apparently, the Bold Defiance men attacked the Guards who were building the gallows and so the authorities set the hour of the hangings to early morning, to try to avoid further violence. As soon as the news got out, there was an enormous crowd assembled.”

  A vision of the prisoner he’d seen on his way to Tyburn flooded Henri’s mind: the man so defiant and smiling even when he was chained on the cart to his own coffin and pelted with rotten eggs and cabbages. The last time he’d seen Guy he was a pale, almost wraithlike figure who’d fainted into the guard’s arms in court. How must he have been on the day of his hanging? It was unimaginable.

  He swallowed hard, fighting back tears. He barely dared to ask: “Did you go?”

  Benjamin nodded. “M. Lavalle made me, because he needed to stay with Mrs. Lemaitre. They had to get the doctor for her, she was that distraught. He told me I must go to pay my respects on behalf of the family.”

  And now the hardest question of all: “Was his death quick?”

  “I believe so, although the crowd was so great I could barely see. The Bold Defiance planned to storm the carts before they reached the gallows, but there were so many soldiers that they couldn’t get past.” He shook his head, as though scarcely able to believe what he’d witnessed.

  “By the time they managed to break through and cut them down, they were already dead. They’ve brought Guy’s body back to his mother, so at least she will be able to bury him properly.”

  As Henri listened, a great chill crept through him, and he began to shiver violently. The vision was just too awful to contemplate.

  “That’s not all,” Benjamin said, grimly determined to complete his duty of witness. “Then they tore down one of the gibbets and set off with it, carrying it piece by piece, chanting all the while and waving their torches, till they got to Crispin Street. They set the gibbet back together right there, outside Chauvet’s house, and smashed his windows and threw their torches inside to set fire to the place. It was mayhem. Then of course the soldiers arrived and arrested dozens more. They say the prisons are overflowing with journeymen now.”

  Later, after Benjamin had left, Henri gave himself up to his misery, curling up on the floor, weeping and holding his hands over his ears, trying to block out the ghastly image of the pale, terrified figure of his friend as he went to his end. If only he’d done more to help him, to give him a little dignity and comfort in his last days. He deeply regretted failing to help him more generously or of intervening sooner when he’d begun to tread a wayward path.

  Now it was too late.

  • • •

  He had been in jail nearly two weeks, had heard nothing from the legal clerk, and was beginning to despair when M. Lavalle arrived with news.

  “The Company Committee met last night,” he said, taking his seat on the bench beside Henri. “To review the submitted master pieces.”

  “And?”

  “As you know, in the first instance, the works are presented anonymously, to prevent bias. Yours was considered to be of the highest quality, exceptional in fact, according to certain members. ‘Without a doubt this weaver should be admitted,’ they said. Congratulations, my boy.”

  From the expression on his face, Henri sensed that bad news was to follow. “What are you not telling me?”

  The old man cleared his throat. “When they came to write down the list of new Freemen, they went into a long discussion about whether they could admit someone who was currently facing criminal charges. They had to consult the statute books but, in the end, they said they would suspend admission until—”

  “What does it matter, anyway, when my life is already lost?”

  “Please do not lose heart, my boy,” M. Lavalle said. “The legal fellow is working hard to find people to testify to your innocence and good character. We shall get you out of here soon. Imagine, you will not only be freed, but also a Freeman.”

  Henri tried to smile for his master, to be glad and grateful, but somehow the idea of a double prize felt even more of a distant dream. He could not rid his mind of the conviction that his life was effectively finished.

  What did my father and s
isters die for? To find freedom for our family. And how do I, the last remaining child, repay them? By becoming a good-for-nothing who has thrown away every opportunity that has come to him.

  In a dim memory from his childhood, he recalled one of his father’s favorite sayings: Where there’s life, there is hope. But for how long would he manage to hold on to his own life? he wondered. It seemed the authorities wanted to wipe out the Bold Defiance completely. If no one came forward to prove his innocence, might he soon be following Guy to his grave?

  21

  There can be no doubt Providence has willed that man should be the head of the human race, even as woman is its heart; that he should be its strength, as she is its solace; that he should be its wisdom, as she is its grace; that he should be its mind, its impetus, and its courage, as she is its sentiment, its charm, and its consolation.

  —The Lady’s Book of Manners

  Anna was all for going directly to Miss Charlotte’s shop as soon as the coach set them down outside the Red Lyon.

  “I will not rest easy until I know,” she chafed, but night had already fallen. The shop would be shut, and Joseph and Sarah were expecting them for supper.

  “We’ve had a long journey, and we need to eat and rest, my love,” Theodore said. “To prepare ourselves properly.”

  Still tucked into her muff, where she had held it like a talisman for much of the journey, was the envelope containing Charlotte’s letter and the newspaper cutting.

  She could still picture the moment she’d read those words, when her world turned upside down. Henri, in jail, possibly sentenced to death? Perhaps already hanged? How could that be possible? He seemed so dutiful, so levelheaded. She had known about the journeymen’s riots, of course, but could not imagine him being part of that lawless gang of thugs.

  She must have uttered a small yelp, because her father had immediately come to her side. “What is it, dearest? Bad news? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” She’d passed the note to him, wordlessly, barely able to speak for the shock of it. Then she showed him the newspaper report.

  “Is the letter from your seamstress friend? The one you told me about a few days ago?”

  She nodded.

  “This Henri she writes of is the weaver boy? And you think that he might already have…?”

  She nodded again, still too numb to weep.

  He put his arm around her. “Take heart, my dearest. If he is the man you have described to me, it seems most unlikely that he would have committed any such crime. I am sure he will not be one of those mentioned in the newspaper. The law does not move that quickly. However, we must go to their aid at once.”

  “Whatever can we do? We have no money to pay for his bail or buy clever lawyers.” As she said it, the idea came into her head: she did know a lawyer, albeit one not fully qualified.

  “We could visit the young man, at the very least, to cheer his soul,” her father was saying.

  She recalled the cold tone of Henri’s last letter. “I am not sure I would be welcome.”

  “But can you ignore your friend’s request?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I must go and do what I can, or I will never rest easy.”

  “Then we shall write at once and make preparations. I shall come with you. Let me get my Sunday duties out of the way, and we shall go on Monday.”

  “What about Jane?”

  “She will stay with Mrs. Chapman next door, as usual.”

  “I am sure we will not be welcome at Spital Square, with Joseph’s troubles.”

  “Psht. They’ve still got a house, haven’t they? We are family. And we won’t burden them for long.”

  • • •

  Anna was dreading the inevitable interrogation by her aunt and uncle. Her father was adamantly opposed even to white lies, but during the journey, she had managed to persuade him that revealing their true purpose would cause outrage. She could so clearly imagine her aunt spluttering, A French weaver? In prison? Whatever business is it of yours, Theodore?

  Neither was she looking forward to returning to the sunless house in Spital Square. When she’d closed the door behind her a few short weeks ago, she had breathed a sigh of relief, never imagining that she would return so soon. It had been a place of so much loneliness, ignominy, and sadness.

  As it turned out, Joseph and Sarah appeared delighted to see them and had laid on an impressive spread for supper: hot roast pheasants, cold cuts, and an apple turnover for pudding. The fires were burning merrily in every room, and many candles were lit. No sign of belts being pulled in here, Anna thought to herself.

  Lizzie had flung herself upon her cousin as soon as they’d entered and had clung to her side ever since. Even William seemed in an unusually cheerful mood. After several glasses of his best claret—to celebrate the value of family, he’d declared—Joseph began to expand on his plans for turning around their business fortunes.

  “Have you heard? The new king has chosen his queen. She comes to London this spring to prepare for their wedding. It’s the best possible news for the silk trade, mark my words.”

  “Who is she?” Anna inquired.

  “A German princess,” Sarah said. “Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. Word is she’s no great beauty, so there will be all the more reason to bedeck her in the best silks. They will marry in July and the coronation is planned for a fortnight later.”

  “Every mercer in the land is busy buttering up anyone who might be appointed royal costumier,” William said drily.

  “But even if we don’t supply her trousseau, can you imagine all the dress silks that will be required for their guests?” Joseph said. “It is just a matter of finding the best possible designs to catch the eye of the courtiers and their ladies.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I haven’t been in the business for all these years not to know the next best thing when I see it.”

  Lizzie piped up: “And what is the ‘next best thing,’ Papa?”

  “I don’t know just yet, my dearest, but when I do I shall work day and night to make sure we get the commissions,” he said, draining his glass. “Anyone for another?”

  “Have you heard about the troubles?” William asked. “There have been many shenanigans among the weavers since you left. Journeymen rioting and cutting and getting themselves hanged. It’s a bad business.”

  “We have seen newspaper reports, but they didn’t mention any names,” Anna said, struggling to keep her voice steady. William left the room and returned shortly with a crumpled newspaper.

  She held it up to the candle and tried to keep her hands from trembling as she scanned the page, fearful that she might encounter Henri’s name. Instead, the name which caught her eye was that of Guy Lemaitre. The report was brief and the ending brutal: Hanged at Bethnal Green.

  She could barely breathe. If Guy had already been sentenced and hanged, might Henri be next? It was all she could do to hold her body still when what she most wanted was to scream. She took a swig of wine and then another, forcing herself to take breaths slowly, in and out, in and out.

  “Load of violent villains, the lot of them,” Joseph was saying. “They’ve been holding masters to ransom, forcing them to pay according to their illegal Book of Prices. They’ve got no idea of the consequences: the masters will go to the wall, and then where shall we be?”

  • • •

  After a sleepless night, Anna sat impatiently through breakfast listening to her father fielding the family’s inquiries about their plans. He spoke in vague terms of meetings and Church business, intimating that they would not be back till late afternoon.

  “My goodness,” he said, as they passed the market, swerving to avoid carts, horses, peddlers, and beggars thronging the streets. “I don’t remember London being quite so chaotic before.”

  “How long is it since you were here last?”

  “A
h, it must be twenty or thirty years—before you were born, anyway.”

  “They say this part of the city has doubled in size just in the past few decades,” she said. “Everyone wants to come here for the work.”

  “From all over the world, my ears tell me,” he said. “Doesn’t anyone speak English around here?”

  • • •

  Miss Charlotte welcomed Anna with a delighted embrace.

  “Charlotte, tell me at once, I must know,” Anna cried. “I have read dreadful news of Henri’s friend Guy. But is Henri well?”

  “Indeed it is terrible news of Guy. But take heart, Anna. Although Henri is still in jail, he is not yet come to trial and by all accounts is well.”

  “Thank heavens.” She clasped the doorjamb, giddy with relief, only then sensing her father behind her, still waiting on the step. “Oh, do forgive my rudeness. Miss Charlotte, please meet my father, Theodore Butterfield.”

  Miss Charlotte dipped her knee. “Sir, it is a pleasure. Anna never told me that you were a man of the cloth,” she said. “How should I address you?”

  “Theo,” he said. “That’s what everyone else calls me.”

  “Will you take tea?” Charlotte said. “And I can relate to you all that has happened.”

  As they were ushered into the rear parlor, Anna recalled that happy afternoon of conversation about William Hogarth and his views on beauty. How long ago that seemed. When they were seated, Charlotte began, “It was Mariette, Monsieur Lavalle’s daughter, who first brought me the news. She was so upset, poor thing. He was arrested the day his friend Guy Lemaitre went to trial. Had you met?”

  “Briefly, just once, with Henri,” Anna said. “I cannot believe he has been hanged.”

  “It was a shock for us all.” Charlotte looked down at her hands. “Especially Henri. He went to the trial, but after they were sentenced, he went crazy and ended up drinking with a group of those Bold Defiance men. He says he was drunk and didn’t know who they were. He’d already left the group by the time the Runners arrived, but they found him nearby and arrested him anyway.”