by Liz Trenow
Listening to the sounds of the household around and above him, the clatter of Cook in the kitchen, the familiar squeaks of the floorboards, the murmur of voices, and the smell of M. Lavalle’s pipe tobacco, he found himself smiling in the darkness at this unexpected, extraordinary turn in his fortunes.
The tuneless tinkle of the harpsichord started up—Mariette practicing for the visitors. “Oh, Mariette,” he sighed. She had greeted him like an overexcited puppy, barely able to stop herself from touching his sleeve, holding his hand, pasting chaste kisses onto his cheek. He was pleased to see her too, of course, but just as a brother would on being reunited with his sister. Never in a hundred years could he imagine her as his bride.
Prison had changed him, cleared his mind. In the bleakest moments, he’d promised himself that if he ever managed to gain his freedom, he would live to the full whatever future was granted to him. He would stop being so concerned about what others thought and allow his own conscience to lead him, rather than always doing what others expected. Above all, he would lead a quiet life, a domestic life, he hoped, well away from politics and protest.
Despite M. Lavalle’s assurances, he felt it unlikely that he would receive his mastership, given his reckless behavior and prison record. The suggestion of inheritance would, he was sure, receive no further mention, for how could his master entrust his precious business to such an irresponsible fool? But he was certain, still, that silk weaving was in his blood. He would apply himself to his craft and set up his own business as best he could and work hard to recover the respect of those he loved: his mother, M. Lavalle and the family, and…Anna.
Even the thought of her brought butterflies to his stomach. M. Lavalle had already sent an invitation to Spital Square. It was to be tea the following afternoon. His mother and Miss Charlotte were coming too.
He visualized Anna on the step with her father, welcoming her in, taking her cloak, and smelling on it her sweet, wildflower fragrance, sitting close to her and talking openly, without having to whisper in that clandestine way when they had met before. Then, after tea, he would show her his master piece, the realization of her very own design, and watch the look of wonder and joy creep over her face.
• • •
Henri woke with a start, not knowing how long he had slept. No slivers of light pierced through the wainscot and the house was silent. He peered through the door into the kitchen. The fire was out, the bird asleep in its covered cage. It must be the dead of night.
Lighting a candle, he pulled on his breeches and slippers and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He’d been dreaming about weaving—it was nearly a month since he’d held a shuttle in his hand, and yesterday he had been so busy eating and talking that he had not even found a moment to visit the weaving loft. Avoiding the creaky treads as best he could, he made his way up two flights of stairs and then climbed the ladder to the loft. He pushed up the hatch, climbed through, and then, carefully feeding the knotted rope through his hands, hinged it gently to the floor with only the slightest clunk.
The dry, nutty smell of the silk was so familiar, so comforting, it felt like being welcomed into the arms of a lover. Holding his candle high, he scrutinized the work on the three looms. Benjamin was weaving a dusty-pink damask, he could see, and the small, plain loom was, as usual, being used for narrow-width black satin facings. And then he saw to his astonishment that on his own loom was the brocade that he had been weaving to Anna’s design. He shook his head, bewildered. Surely he remembered taking the piece off the loom? He had delivered it to the Weavers’ Hall with his own hands.
Peering at the take-up beam, he guessed the roll held around six yards. He had never woven this much; he’d only had time for a single repeat of the figure, as required for the Company. He was still puzzling over this when he heard the creak of the ladder and turned to see M. Lavalle’s night cap appearing through the hatch.
“I thought it must be you,” the old man said, blinking sleepily.
“Pardon me if I disturbed you, sir. I am just reacquainting myself with the looms.”
M. Lavalle climbed the remaining treads and stepped to Henri’s side.
“I hope you don’t mind. I asked Benjamin to continue weaving your brocade. He’s done a good job of it, don’t you think?”
“It is just as I would have woven it,” Henri admitted uneasily. “But may I ask, sir…” The question stalled in his throat. What if the answer was negative? He tried again: “I have failed you, Master. If you were to send me away, I would understand.”
“Failed me? Send you away? Don’t be ridiculous!” M. Lavalle’s laugh filled the room. “Come. Take a seat.” He lowered himself stiffly to the loom bench, patting the board beside him. “You acted foolishly, that I grant, and you have paid dearly for it. But let that be the end of the matter. Surely you can see how pleased we all are to have you back with us? You are like a son to me and will be always welcome in my house and my employ. What you decide to do when you achieve your mastership is, of course, your decision.”
“How can I thank you enough?” Henri said. “I cannot imagine any life but the one I have enjoyed here for the past years. Except…” Again he stalled. How could he tell this kind, generous man, upon whom he looked as a father, that he could not accept his generous offer of inheritance? That, in effect, he did not want to be his son?
M. Lavalle leaned across, taking Henri’s hand in his. “This is about Mariette, is it not?”
Henri nodded. Words failed him.
“There was a time I imagined that you two might marry,” M. Lavalle said quietly. “But I have changed my mind. In fact, I would not consent to it, even if you asked me. It would result in a life of unhappiness for both of you.”
Henri turned to him, confused. “But why?”
“It was quite obvious to me, to your mother, indeed to anyone watching you in the street yesterday, that your affections lie elsewhere.”
“My mother?”
“It was she who made it clear to me. ‘We are going to have to let him follow his heart, Jean.’ Those were her words, and straightaway I knew she was right. I believe that Mariette understood it, too, for she said she had never before seen such a look on your face.”
Henri sighed, a long exhalation that seemed to draw all of the tension and fear from his body. “It is true,” he admitted, almost under his breath. “I am sorry to disappoint Mariette’s feelings for me, if she had any.”
“She is young yet, and there are plenty of handsome young men to catch her eye. But is your regard for Miss Butterfield reciprocated, do you believe?”
“I believe that Anna feels the same for me. But whether her family will allow her to marry a lowly French journeyman, that I cannot tell.”
“It will depend on her father, of course, but from what I observed yesterday, he seems an open-minded sort. Besides, you will soon become a master weaver with your own profitable business—surely a good catch for any young woman?”
“My own business? But I thought…?”
“My offer stands, even if you are not to be my son-in-law. I cannot think of anyone else to whom I would want to entrust the business,” M. Lavalle said.
Henri felt his eyes fill with tears. How could so much happiness be handed to him, in such a short space of time, when less than twenty-four hours before he was moldering in prison, expecting banishment to a penal colony, or even death, to be his fate? He wiped his face with his sleeve and turned to face his master.
“How can I ever—” He had no time to finish because he found himself in a powerful, warm embrace.
“No words are needed, my son,” M. Lavalle whispered into his ear.
• • •
It was not only the lack of sleep which left Henri feeling as though he were in some kind of dream.
Observing his mother being charmed by Anna’s passionate talk of art and nature, listening with
one ear to M. Lavalle and the reverend animatedly discussing whether politics and morality could ever be bedfellows, and watching Mariette and Charlotte excitedly poring over copies of The Guide to Modern Fashion, a sort of ecstasy seemed to flow through him, thrilling and comforting at the same time. Everything he could possibly desire—his friends, his family, and those whom he loved, as well as the silk and his weaving—were right here in this house.
Every chair in the house had been brought to the parlor, where a blazing fire glinted cheerfully off the dark-wood paneling. Cook served tea in the best porcelain, along with some delicate langues de chat biscuits, a specialty to impress the English guests.
From time to time, he and Anna would exchange discreet glances and the smallest of smiles which made his heart seem momentarily to stop beating. He could see, without a doubt, that she felt happy here with him and in the company of his household.
Once tea was over, M. Lavalle took out the package containing the yards of Henri’s master piece fabric that had been returned from the Weavers’ Company. He was nervous now, wondering what Anna would make of his interpretation. The piece was held up and passed around the room, everyone severally exclaiming over it, complimenting Henri on the delicacy and intricacy of the weaving and Anna on the elegance of the design, the trellis pattern of columbine, the bold-faced daisies and nodding bluebell heads, the curled petals of the dog rose.
He could see, all over again, how the silk threads shimmered and glinted in the firelight, giving the appearance that the stems and flowers were actually stirring in a gentle breeze. The intensity of the colors seemed even more brilliant than he had remembered: the deepest-pink stripes in each columbine petal, the bold yellow gold at the center of the daisy, the deep purple of the bluebells, the leaves of each plant each in a different shade of green.
When it reached Anna, she glanced at him with a shy smile and, without a word, took the silk over to the window. All eyes were upon her as she held it close to her face, examining it section by section. Henri was transfixed: a beam of late-afternoon sunshine reflected from a window on the house opposite and fell directly onto her, lighting up the blue of her dress and the halo of curls loosened from her bonnet.
He could bear the suspense no longer. “Do you like it? Do you approve my work?”
The look on her face as she turned was something he would remember for years to come. She seemed, literally, to be illuminated, her eyes wide in wonder and wet with tears, her smile broader than he had ever seen it.
“It is wonderful,” she said simply. “I would never have believed that all those details could be translated into the weave of a fabric. You have perfectly reproduced my very rough painting and turned it into a true work of art. Look, even my little beetle is here.” A single tear escaped down her cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
Everyone laughed, and Henri felt that he might burst with pride. For a second, he was transported back to the market, hanging over the rails of the gallery overlooking the flower stalls, his heart beating wildly as he watched the shapes coming to life at the point of Anna’s graphite. From the moment he’d first held it in his hands, the design had almost taken over his world: working out how he could make the loom weave it with the most faithful similitude, the meticulous scrutiny needed to translate it onto squared paper, the painstaking choice of yarn colors, the careful weaving, and the satisfaction of watching the finished cloth emerging, inch by slow inch, rolling onto the take-up beam.
All the time, as he’d worked, Anna’s presence had been close in his mind. And now she was here, in his house, with his family, holding his fabric, the fabric they had created together, the fabric that bore all his love for her. He could not imagine anyplace, or any company, in which he might find greater happiness. He looked up and realized that everyone was waiting for him to say something, but he found himself overwhelmed, unable to speak for the tears choking his throat.
Charlotte broke the silence. “Anna, were you going to ask about the silk for you-know-who?”
“Yes, of course,” Anna said, seeming to gather herself as if from a trance. “I almost forgot.” She returned to her chair and handed the silk back to M. Lavalle. “You see, my uncle Joseph Sadler and my cousin William have a proposition to make.”
She glanced at Charlotte, who nodded encouragement. “They have an appointment with the royal costumiers who are preparing for the wedding of the king and queen,” she went on. “And they wondered whether you would agree to them submitting this fabric for consideration.”
“Mon Dieu,” M. Lavalle exclaimed. “This is, how you say, a bolt from the blue. But they have not yet seen it for themselves.”
“They have received a commendation from Miss Charlotte,” Anna replied.
“I am astonished—and delighted, of course. Henri, would you allow them to consider your work?”
Henri’s head was spinning. These Sadlers were full of surprises. First, William got him out of jail, and now, he wanted his silk to clothe a queen.
“How can we refuse such an honor?” he managed to stutter.
“Please convey our thanks. We are much flattered,” M. Lavalle said. “Henri will bring the piece to them in the morning, and if they are still interested, then we will meet to discuss terms.”
“It is a remarkable piece of work, Henri. I cannot imagine how you could weave such a complex thing,” Anna’s father said.
“Would you like to see the loom for yourself?”
• • •
There was barely room to move once M. Lavalle and Mariette, Henri and his mother, Anna and her father, as well as Miss Charlotte had all safely climbed the ladder and negotiated the hatchway into the cool air of the weaving loft. Henri had never seen the attic room so crowded. Benjamin took his bench and began to demonstrate the weaving with the drawboy at his place by the side of the loom, and everyone watched with rapt attention as the pattern emerged with each pass of the shuttle.
Henri glanced anxiously at Anna, standing next to him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittering, as if on the brink of tears again. “Are you unwell?” he whispered.
“I am better than I can ever remember,” she whispered back. “It’s simply that…seeing my design come to life…it is just so exciting. I’m so happy that I could cry.”
“In my humble view, this is the very finest level of craftsmanship,” M. Lavalle was explaining to Theodore. “And when the Company grants Henri his Freedom, he will be able to employ others on his own account. He will run the business for me, and I can spend the rest of my days at leisure. That is my plan.”
Clothilde laughed. “You will never let go that easily, Jean.”
“I must say that it sounds like an attractive prospect,” Theodore said. “Regrettably, vicars are not allowed to retire; they must minister to their flock until their very last days or be thrown onto the street.”
“Then you must depend on your daughter to earn a fortune from her designs,” M. Lavalle said. “Anyone can see she has a talent for it.”
• • •
Henri took care to ensure that he and Anna were the last to take their turn down the ladder. As she went to prepare for the descent, he took her hand, holding her back.
“I want… I cannot thank you enough for all you do for me.”
“You don’t mind, do you?” she said. “About offering the silk to my uncle? It was Charlotte’s suggestion.”
“Don’t mind? I am most…” He struggled for the right word. “Delighted. Very much flattered.”
“I am glad.” Her smile seemed to him the most beautiful sight in the world.
“But more than that, I want to ask…” He faltered. “I think you know…?”
She nodded, turning her face to his so that he found himself lost in her gaze all over again.
“Would you…?” He could hear his own heart beating in his chest.
/> And then, so quietly that he could barely hear it, she whispered, “Yes, Henri. I would.”
He lifted her chin and their lips met, so quickly and chastely that afterward, as he tried to reimagine the moment, he found himself wondering whether it had actually happened.
“Are you coming, Anna?” he heard her father call from the floor below.
“Do you think he will consent?” he whispered. His lips, indeed his whole body, seemed alight with desire.
“You will have to ask him.” She smiled back, gathering her skirts for the descent.
Epilogue
Those moments, and those of the days that immediately followed, are etched as clearly in Anna’s mind as though they were yesterday. Can it possibly be forty years ago? she wonders.
She looks up from her tapestry to where, on the opposite side of the hearth, Henri is dozing in his favorite chair—once the favorite of the late Jean Lavalle. The way her husband’s head has fallen sideways, the eyes closed and jaw slackened, the hands slumped in his lap and yet still keeping a grasp on the newspaper, brings a fond smile to her face. He is an old man now, his face lined and his beard grizzled; that once luxuriant dark hair is grayed and thinning beneath his favorite velvet cap.
We are both growing old, she thinks, scowling at her wrinkled fingers, the roughened skin of her arms, the liver spots on the backs of her hands. She cannot remember how long it was since she’d troubled to take more than a passing glance at her reflection in the glass, preferring to deceive herself with the memory of how she once was.
The house feels hardly changed by the passage of time and the many events it has witnessed. Firelight glints off the wooden paneling in just the same way as it did that day forty years ago: the clock ticks in the corner, the shutters rattle when the wind is in the east, and looms thud and clatter in the loft. The sweet, nutty smell of raw silk still pervades the air.
