The Hidden Thread

by Liz Trenow

  It’s no wonder I loved him so; such a good-looking man, active and energetic. A man of unlimited selflessness, of many smiles and little guile. Who loved every part of me, infinitely. What a lucky woman. I find myself smiling back, with tears in my eyes.

  My granddaughter brings a pot of tea. At seventeen, Emily is the oldest of her generation of Verners, a clever, sensitive girl growing up faster than I can bear. I see in her so much of myself at that age: not exactly pretty in the conventional way—her nose is slightly too long—but striking, with smooth cheeks and a creamy complexion that flushes at the slightest hint of discomfiture. Her hair, the color of black coffee, grows thick and straight, and her dark inquisitive eyes shimmer with mischief or chill with disapproval. She has that determined Verner jawline that says “don’t mess with me.” She’s tall and lanky, all arms and legs, rarely out of the patched jeans and charity-shop jumpers that seem to be all the rage with her generation these days. Unsophisticated but self-confident, exhaustingly energetic—and always fun. Had my own daughter lived, I sometimes think, she would have been like Emily.

  At this afternoon’s wake the streak of crimson she’s emblazoned into the flick of her fringe was like an exotic bird darting among the dark suits and dresses. Soon she will fly, as they all do, these independent young women. But for now she indulges me with her company and conversation, and I cherish every moment.

  She hands me a cup of weak tea with no milk, just how I like it, and then plonks herself down on the footstool next to me. We watch the slide show together for a few moments, and she says, “I miss Grandpa, you know. Such an amazing man. He was so full of ideas and enthusiasm—I loved the way he supported everything we did, even the crazy things.” She’s right, I think to myself.

  “He always used to ask me about stuff,” she goes on. “He was always interested in what I was doing with myself. Not many grown-ups do that. A great listener.”

  As usual my smart girl goes straight to the heart of it. It’s something I’m probably guilty of, not listening enough. “You can talk to me, now that he’s gone,” I say, a bit too quickly. “Tell me what’s new.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I really do,” I say. Her legs, in heart-patterned black tights, seem to stretch for yards beyond her miniskirt, and my heart swells with love for her, the way she gives me her undivided attention for these moments of proper talking time.

  “Have I told you I’m going to India?” she says.

  “My goodness, how wonderful,” I say. “How long for?”

  “Only a month,” she says airily.

  I’m achingly envious of her youth, her energy, her freedom. I wanted to travel too at her age, but war got in the way. My thoughts start to wander until I remember my commitment to listening. “What are you going to do there?”

  “We’re going to an orphanage. In December, with a group from college. To dig the foundations for a cowshed,” she says triumphantly. I’m puzzled, and distracted by the idea of elegant Emily wielding a shovel in the heat, her slender hands calloused and dirty, hair dulled by dust.

  “Why does an orphanage need a cowshed?”

  “So they can give the children fresh milk. It doesn’t get delivered to the doorstep like yours does, Gran,” she says reprovingly. “We’re raising money to buy the cows.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “About two thousand. Didn’t I tell you? I’m doing a sponsored parachute jump.” The thought of my precious Emily hanging from a parachute harness makes me feel giddy, as if capsized by some great gust of wind. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe,” she says. “It’s with a professional jump company, all above board. I’ll show you.”

  She returns with her handbag, an impractical affair covered in sequins, extracts a brochure, and gives it to me. I pretend to read it, but the photographs of cheerful children preparing for their jumps seem to mock me and make me even more fearful. She takes the leaflet back. “You should know all about parachutes, Gran. You used to make them, Dad said.”

  “Well,” I start tentatively, “weaving parachute silk was our contribution to the war effort. It kept us going when lots of other mills closed.” I can picture the weaving shed as if from above, each loom with its wide white spread, shuttles clacking back and forth, the rolls of woven silk growing almost imperceptibly thicker with each turn of the weighted cloth beam.

  “But why did they use silk?”

  “It’s strong and light, packs into a small bag, and unwraps quickly because it’s so slippery.” My voice is steadying now and I can hear that old edge of pride. Silk seems still to be threaded through my veins. Even now I can smell its musty, nutty aroma, see the lustrous intensity of its colors—emerald, aquamarine, gold, crimson, purple—and recite the exotic names like a mantra: brigandine, bombazine, brocatelle, douppion, organzine, pongee, schappe.

  She studies the leaflet again, peering through the long fringe that flops into her eyes. “It says here the parachutes we’re going to use are of high-quality one-point-nine-ounce ripstop nylon. Why didn’t they use nylon in those days? Wouldn’t it have been cheaper?”

  “They hadn’t really invented nylon by then, not good enough for parachutes. You have to get it just right for parachutes,” I say and then, with a shiver, those pitiless words slip into my head after all these years. Get it wrong and you’ve got dead pilots.

  She rubs my arm gently with her fingertips to smooth down the little hairs, looking at me anxiously. “Are you cold, Gran?”

  “No, my lovely, it’s just the memories.” I send up a silent prayer that she will never know the dreary fear of war, when all normal life is suspended, when the impossible becomes ordinary, when every decision seems to be a matter of life or death, when good-byes are often for good.

  It tends to take the shine off you.

  A Conversation with the Author

  What was the inspiration behind The Hidden Thread and its heroine, Anna Butterfield?

  When I was researching the history of my family’s silk business, which started in Spitalfields, East London, in the early 1700s (and is still weaving today in Sudbury, Suffolk), the first recorded address that I could discover was in Wilkes Street, then called Wood Street.

  Just a few yards away, on the corner of Wilkes Street and Princelet Street, is the house where the eminent silk designer Anna Maria Garthwaite lived from 1728 until her death in 1763. It was here, at the very heart of the silk industry, that she produced over a thousand patterns for damasks and brocades, many of which are today in the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. I was intrigued to imagine that my ancestors would have known, and probably worked with, the most celebrated textile designer of the eighteenth century, whose silks were sought after by the nobility in Britain and America. Yet almost nothing is known about her personal life, and this is what intrigued me.

  How did she learn the highly technical and complex skills of designing for silk? And how did an unmarried, middle-class woman by then in her middle years manage to develop and conduct such a successful business in what was a largely male-dominated industry? It was these mysteries that sparked the idea for the novel.

  In the novel, Anna goes from searching for a prosperous marriage to becoming a prominent silk designer. How radical was it for Anna to choose a career over marriage at this time in history?

  Most working-class women in that era had little choice but to work, usually in low skilled work, such as housekeeping or trades like the seamstress Miss Charlotte or as a silk throwster like Clothilde. But Anna is part of the “middle classes” for whom it was considered improper and unseemly for ladies to work. The only paid occupations open for an educated unmarried woman would have been as a governess or teacher, which is what Anna considers. Married middle-class women did not work at all except perhaps for charitable endeavors. This was not only a source of much frustration, but also left them dependent on making
a good marriage to avoid penury. You only have to read the novels of Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters to see this reflected in the literature of the time. So it wasn’t exactly a “choice” that Anna made—she just got lucky and discovered almost by mistake what she had yearned for: both love and a creative career.

  Tell us about your personal connection to the silk trade.

  My family has been weaving silk for nearly three hundred years—it is the oldest silk company operating in the UK today. I was born and brought up next door to the silk mill in Sudbury, which is one of only three in the country, and supplies top-end fashion houses and interior designers all over the world. They wove the Queen’s coronation robe and a number of royal wedding dresses, including that for Princess Diana.

  Although I spent most of my working life as a journalist for BBC radio and television, I have always had a fascination for silk and its remarkable journey from the caterpillar of the silk moth weaving its cocoon to becoming the most beautiful and highly valued fabric in the world.

  You paint a very vivid portrait of London in the 1800s. What does your research and writing process look like when crafting a historical novel?

  I spent nearly a year researching the history behind The Hidden Thread, visiting museums, art galleries, libraries, and Georgian houses, as well as reading very widely. A royal palace was staging a Georgians season with actors playing the roles of the residents. One of them very kindly showed me how she got dressed each day, which was invaluable information! Another talked to me about the wigs he wore for different occasions.

  Researching the history of the Huguenots was especially interesting and at times sad. To escape religious persecution, they made perilous journeys and terrifying sea crossings in much the same way as migrants fleeing war and persecution must do today.

  Although most of the research is done before I start, it continues all the way through writing the novel. For eighteen months, I read nothing but factual books about the eighteenth century or novels written or set in the period to get myself into the vocabulary and rhythms of speech. By the end, I was so fully immersed in the era, I felt reluctant to let it go.

  Was there anything about silk weaving you learned that you hadn’t known before?

  Yes! I had to learn how an eighteenth-century hand-operated draw loom worked. There are only one or two working examples left in the country, but luckily, a friend of the family is an expert and was able to help me understand how these looms were set up and operated (including the job of the draw boy) to create the fabulous damasks and brocades of the time.

  Which character was your favorite to write?

  Although I loved Anna and could really feel myself in her head, I particularly enjoyed writing the character of Henri, because it required getting into the mind-set of a twenty-year-old French boy in the eighteenth century. The language was challenging, but I was lucky enough to have a French friend who helped me make sure that it was authentic—especially the colorful curses!

  I also have a soft spot for Miss Charlotte because she is an independent woman making her way in the world despite enduring difficult times.

  We know that Anna is based on a real person, but is Henri? Where did you get the inspiration for their star-crossed romance?

  From Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, surely one of the greatest love stories of all time! I particularly wanted to tell the tale of the Huguenots and how they had to flee religious persecution, because it seemed so relevant for today. Making Henri a Huguenot journeyman weaver meant that he was definitely from the wrong social class for Anna, as well as being an immigrant who spoke a different language.

  Once I had decided that, Henri seemed to evolve quite naturally. His friend Guy appeared almost by magic in the first scene and evolved into the bold, rebellious character who drives so much of the plot. He becomes a great foil, helping to highlight Henri’s flirtatious but relatively careful, dutiful nature, and also leading him into dangerous liaisons with the Cutters.

  Acknowledgments

  First of all, I must thank my agent, Caroline Hardman of Hardman & Swainson, and my editor, Shana Drehs, at Sourcebooks.

  This book was my first foray into the eighteenth century and involved extensive research. I read masses, of course, and visited many exhibitions and libraries—there’s a list at the end of the book—but I also had assistance from numerous individuals, only some of whom I have space to mention here.

  I am eternally grateful for the welcome shown to me by the residents of Wilkes Street: Sue Rowlands, who lives in the house where my forbears began their business—and on which I have based Monsieur Lavalle’s residence—and her neighbors, John and Sandy Critchley.

  The textile expert and author Mary Schoeser piqued my interest in Anna Maria Garthwaite and gave me an introduction to staff at the Victoria and Albert Museum’s National Art Library, where I was thrilled to discover the final, unpublished manuscript by the previous curator of textiles, the late Natalie Rothstein.

  Richard Humphries lent me several valuable books on eighteenth-century weaving and the Weavers’ Company, and my brother, David Walters (former MD of the family silk company), checked technical aspects of the weaving passages. Martin Arnaud corrected my French phrases and added some colorful eighteenth-century French curses. Mark Bills, curator at Gainsborough’s House Museum in Sudbury, was very helpful and my artist husband, David Trenow, made sure that the drawing and painting scenes made sense. All inaccuracies are entirely mine (see my note on the history that inspired The Hidden Thread at the end of the book).

  As always, I am hugely grateful to my family and friends (especially “The Grumpies”) for their unswerving love and support.

  About the Author

  Photo by David Islip

  Liz Trenow’s family has been silk weavers for nearly three hundred years, and she grew up next to the mill in Sudbury, Suffolk, which is the oldest family-owned silk company in Britain and one of just three still operating today. Liz worked as a journalist for regional and national newspapers, and on BBC radio and television news, before turning her hand to fiction. She lives in East Anglia with her artist husband, and they have two grown-up daughters.

  Find out more at www.liztrenow.com, like her Facebook page at www.facebook.com/liztrenow, or join her on Twitter @LizTrenow.

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