3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  Antonia saw Laurence’s head turn at this. ‘I am not, Mr Montgomery, though I’ve not lost interest by any means. I have merely … paused. As for the portrait, the paper negative looks very much like it did before. I’m not sure if I was successful because I’ve not yet been brave enough to find out.’ She turned to Laurence, who did not yet know about the portrait. ‘Perhaps it is too late?’

  He shrugged. ‘If the iodised paper is carefully preserved, you should be able to expose the latent image even several months later,’ he assured her.

  ‘That is fortunate indeed. You see, the tableau in the portrait included Josiah.’ She gazed at her soup. She had not discussed the photogenic drawing with Laurence because every time she thought of the possibility of having Josiah’s image brought back to her, a terror seized her. Her husband would never return. This ghost image of him could only be a reminder of the fact. When she looked up, Mr Montgomery’s expression was so tender that she could hardly bear to meet his gaze.

  ‘I am still baffled by this means of drawing by the use of light and silver salts,’ he said. ‘Tell me how the method of Mr Talbot differs to that of the Frenchman.’

  Antonia was relieved. This was safe territory. ‘Daguerre favours the use of a copper plate coated with silver, which darkens when exposed to the light. Rather like an etching on the metal. Mr Talbot’s method fixes a negative image onto a paper template that can generate any number of copies. Am I right, Laurence?’

  ‘Quite. With the Talbot method, one picture might be circulated as widely as a woodcut image stereotyped in plaster. In fact, once Mr Talbot releases his patent on the calotype process, photogenic drawing will no doubt be in use by the London papers and journals.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Mr Montgomery, still watching Antonia, as though she were the object of his fascination. She was anxious to deflect his attention, even though she had sought it in the first place. She lowered her voice when Laurence turned away.

  ‘Are you still looking to create an exclusive range for the House of Montgomery?’

  Mr Montgomery raised an eyebrow. ‘I am. The Parisian designs are always very modern, but I tire of being led by the French.’

  ‘Perhaps you would consider a female artisan?’

  Mr Montgomery looked shocked. ‘Mrs Blake, are you petitioning me?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, not for myself, no. For Rhia Mahoney.’ She rather enjoyed his astonishment. She could not have devised a better test for his character had she tried. Did he have the gall to consider employing a woman for such a position? She could only wait and wonder how he would respond.

  Corinna

  The main course had only just been served and Rhia had already eaten too well for a boned bodice. She looked around the table. Mrs Montgomery’s tiara tilted comically, or tragically, and her voice was too loud as she explained some obscure rule of whist to Lady Basset. Mr Beckwith and Isaac Fisher were engaged in a heated discussion over the opium trade. Rhia had given up interjecting. Her opinion was inconsequential and Lady Basset’s disapproving looks were becoming irritating. In fact, she was certain that Lady Basset had whispered something unkind about her to Mrs Montgomery, because her hostess kept glancing at her suspiciously.

  By now they were feasting on wild duck and roast hare and something the serving girl called ‘an Indian dish of fowl’. The meats came served with broad beans and baked Spanish onions and truffles with champagne – the latter, they were informed, a delicacy the Montgomerys had recently dined on in Paris and hoped their guests would enjoy. Rhia did not. The flavour of the truffles was strong and earthy and the champagne unpleasantly heady. The claret had sufficiently improved her endurance of Isabella’s company. Isabella seemed very taken with her, and thought her emancipated. She whispered the word as though it both terrified and excited her. Rhia was enjoying being thought liberal and exotic, but then again a dairymaid would appear so to Isabella who was as cosseted as a little princess – it seemed that she went nowhere without a chaperone. Isabella asked endless questions about the journey from Dublin, her eyes wide and her voice breathy. ‘What an adventure! Papa should never allow it. How I envy you.’

  Rhia was only partly listening while Isabella tinkled on about a forthcoming tea party in honour of her birthday. The neighbouring conversation between Isaac and Beckwith was much more interesting. Isaac had raised his voice.

  ‘The fact remains, Francis, that it is as unethical to attempt to buy China silk under the emperor’s nose as it is to export our cotton to China. The trade ban is law as far as I’m concerned.’

  Mr Beckwith fixed the Quaker with a look that seemed to hold meaning for the two of them alone. Rhia intuited that this was a well-rehearsed conversation. ‘The treasuries of China and Britain are inextricably linked, as we know,’ he said carefully. ‘The ethics are complicated, of course, but didn’t gentlemen of your … persuasion once invest in cotton that was picked by Negro slaves?’ Mr Beckwith seemed almost embarrassed to point this out. ‘I am merely arguing the case for commerce,’ he hastened to add.

  Isaac was silenced as though he had suddenly thought better of his argument. Rhia caught Antonia’s expression of dismay and was puzzled. There was some undercurrent that she was missing.

  Mr Beckwith looked down at his dinner plate as though he regretted drawing attention to himself. She’d gathered that Mr Montgomery’s associate was a sage of the financial markets. It was curious that Beckwith and Montgomery were also friends, since they seemed of vastly different social talents.

  Antonia was looking pained. She addressed Lord Basset almost curtly. ‘The East India Company, of course, would wish the government to protect the opium trade, which is an enormous advantage to them.’

  ‘And to the British nation,’ he spluttered, his face turning the same colour as the veins on his thin nose.

  ‘With respect,’ she persisted, ‘I know bankers who conjure China as the new British Raj.’

  ‘But the Raj is a huge success,’ said Lord Basset. ‘The populations of China and India should be grateful for our civilising influence.’

  Rhia snorted and before she could stop herself, said, ‘Then you cannot know that it was a Chinese delegation that started the Renaissance in Italy?’ She was making herself unattractive again, but what was the point in having illicitly read her father’s entire library if she could not put the knowledge to use? ‘Surely the fact that opium is a slow poison means something to the East India Company.’ There was silence.

  Lady Basset stared daggers at Rhia. Rhia glared back and took a large, inelegant, swallow of claret to stop herself sticking her tongue out.

  It was Isaac who broke the silence in his low, unhurried voice. ‘Of course, without the need to sell opium to buy tea, the silver crisis could be averted, couldn’t it, Francis?’ Mr Beckwith looked up from his plate and replied in his lilting northern accent. ‘It is true. The entire reserve of the Bank of England is earmarked for the trade.’

  Prunella Montgomery put down her cutlery with a clang, and turned to her husband. ‘The Union flag has become a pirate flag,’ she said, and then lifted her glass to no one in particular. There was an awkward silence for a moment before Mr Montgomery laughed. ‘Yes, my dear, or so Mr Gladstone says.’

  Rhia lifted her glass in accord, but no one else did. She had already made a spectacle of herself, so it made no difference what she did now. ‘Then it seems that Mr Gladstone is the only man in Whitehall who is more concerned with the humanity of the matter than with its economics,’ she said. Even to her own ears, her tone was brittle and accusing, but as far as she could tell, the British were behaving like pirates. Lady Basset had a sudden coughing fit and Rhia thought she heard her say ‘impudence’ or ‘impertinence’ between splutters.

  ‘It is also,’ Antonia remarked, ‘a matter of conscience, a quality rare in a politician.’ A look of affinity passed between them. If Antonia did not think less of her for being opinionated, then Rhia didn’t care what anyone else thought, including
Laurence, who had drained his glass nervously twice since the debate began.

  Mr Montgomery was now looking at her as though trying to decide something. Perhaps he was making a mental note not to invite her to another dinner party. Cold lemon pudding and damson tart were served in silence. It was a relief, afterwards, to adjourn to the drawing room with only the women. Lady Basset was now studiously ignoring her, which suited Rhia very well. She was unrepentant.

  They drank over-sweetened café noir and liqueur, and Isabella chattered ceaselessly about the royal wedding, although it was months ago, and how very small Queen Victoria looked beside Prince Albert in all the drawings, and wasn’t it remarkable that someone so tiny, and even younger than she, should be queen of an empire? Everyone nodded but no one seemed to be listening. Mrs Montgomery was now comprehensively intoxicated and was sitting with a faraway look and a fixed smile. She was obviously accustomed to the condition, because the only thing that gave it away was the occasional swaying of her torso. Lady Basset looked bored and irritated and Antonia was clearly exhausted. Rhia hoped that she would want to go home soon. Their eyes met. Antonia leaned towards her conspiratorially.

  ‘Mr Montgomery would like to see your portfolio.’

  Rhia was suddenly awake. ‘My portfolio – is he in need of a draughtsperson? But how did he know?’ She trailed off, confused for a moment before she realised that this must be Antonia’s doing.

  ‘He told me some time ago that he was looking for a textile designer.’

  Rhia was speechless. Antonia merely looked pleased with herself. How was it possible that a Regent Street mercer would even consider a designer with no experience, let alone entertain the thought of employing a female?

  ‘Mr Montgomery wants something a little special, something that is not imported from Paris. Don’t forget, Rhia, that some of the most exquisite and famous designs for silk were by Anna Maria Garthwaite.’

  ‘That is true.’ She had of course heard of this famed designer, a favourite of the regents of the last century.

  ‘Does it interest you?’

  ‘Oh yes! But I cannot call myself a professional.’

  ‘Yes you can. Perhaps not measured by experience, but experience is not everything and I have seen your work. I am always uplifted to see a woman employ her talent and her wit. I’m certain that God did not intend that artistic fulfilment should be entirely for the gratification of men.’

  Rhia was overcome. The evening had been a strain and now, for some reason, she was close to tears. ‘I have not known what to do, what to expect of London, now that—’

  ‘Expect anything. London offers everything or nothing, depending on one’s fate.’

  It was so like something Ryan had said. As if the hopes and desires of so many were merely tricks in a game of whist. ‘Then you believe in fate?’

  Mrs Blake sighed. ‘To some degree. One must find the fragile balance between directing one’s energies and accepting what is bestowed. Or taken away.’

  Isabella was attempting to follow their conversation with a petulant frown. ‘You are both too serious! Miss Mahoney, you must visit again and see Mama’s pretty collection of cloth that Papa brings back from the Orient. It is worth thousands, apparently. Mama says I can choose a length for my birthday gown.’ Suddenly, Isabella clapped her hands with delight. ‘You must come to my birthday party!’

  ‘When is your birthday?’ Rhia asked, trying to sound interested.

  ‘Oh, not until February, but one must have something to look forward to.’

  Rhia smiled wearily and Antonia suppressed a yawn. Surely it was finally a respectable hour to withdraw? Antonia stood up and Rhia sighed with relief.

  In the darkness of the carriage, silence finally felt natural. Mr Montgomery had seen them out and asked her bring her portfolio to Regent Street soon. The thought filled her with exquisite terror.

  Laurence was sitting next to her and she could feel his discomfort. He was probably cross with her for being so opinionated at dinner. He had spent the days since the burial in his studio and didn’t seem to know what to say to her, though he was always unerringly cheerful at breakfast. He took lunch upstairs and dinner at his club.

  ‘You are very well informed on the China Trade, my dear,’ Antonia said softly, as though she were reading Rhia’s thoughts. ‘I approve,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you would be interested to read Laurence’s friend Mr Dillon’s column in the Globe. He writes on commerce and City matters, you know, and has some quite unusual opinions.’

  ‘Yes, he does rather,’ agreed Laurence with a wry smile. ‘Too clever for me, though.’

  They fell into silence.

  As they passed a carriage lamp, Rhia noticed Antonia’s expression. She looked as though she needed her bed, perhaps to be alone with her private memories of her husband. She often seemed formidably self-possessed but now she looked fragile and uncertain. She was only human after all.

  15 December 1840

  The moon is new. I’ve come to the morning room in the faraway hours to see it from the window. The house is silent and still, but sometimes the shadows move as if they are trying to catch my attention. Whatever they want to show me is always just out of reach. I should understand these things. You would probably say that I could if I wanted to. All I know is that I have not yet found my place in this world, because I feel the undertow of another.

  There is a picture in this room that troubles me. It is as though a ghost has entered it. The ghost is black, and it beckons to me, as if wanting to be found. This makes no sense. Tonight I tried your hex for warding away unwelcome spirits. I have trouble with the Gaelic, so I hope I haven’t accidentally invited it to stay! As luck would have it, just as I was finishing, Juliette the morose walked in. I’ve no idea what she was doing up in the night, but I know she heard me because she looked at me as if I’d grown horns and then she fled. I suppose I’ve frightened her, but that is easily done.

  I have spent days walking. There is a labyrinth of alleyways that lead to Threadneedle Street to the west and Petticoat Lane market to the east, past taverns and coffee houses. Different alleyways are filled with different smells; fresh brew, fried kippers and yeast cakes, the lingering note of the evening’s strong ale or sour wine. I have passed by the noisy, busy workshops of coach builders, cartwrights and sedan-chair makers. Yesterday I stopped to watch a fan mounter and became spellbound by the movements of his hands. It is such a delicate craft, attaching silk to wood. Surely there could never be a machine for making fans?

  In the market place there is always shouting about the superior quality of baked goods, flowers and cheeses, sausages and ribbons. There is a bent crone who wears black and sits on a stool at a rickety table making lace. I always stop to watch because her wrinkled hands move so quickly that you can hardly see her wind the thread onto the bobbins. Her lace looks as fragile and silken as a spider’s web.

  There are many nimble fingers within a league of Threadneedle Street, sewing lapels and collars, pockets and sleeves, hems, button holes and gloves. They hang waistcoats and shirtfronts in their front windows or on cloth mannequins on the footpath. The livelihood of so many is dependent on a tailor’s needs. I suppose it is sensible that an entire quarter of the city be dedicated to one trade. I remembered the talk at the Dublin Linen Hall about the forthcoming trade in ready-made coats and shirts. I expect gowns will follow, but I cannot imagine how anyone will find a thing to fit without being measured for it.

  The mercer Mr Montgomery has asked to see my designs, and I have spent days choosing which drawings and paintings to show him, and have some new designs. The city has unexpected graces. In the garden behind the house is a sweep of ivy, clinging to the pale stonework as though it were embossed. I have also been taken by the silhouette of wrought iron against painted masonry. At Petticoat Lane market, overflowing barrows of lavender, geraniums and winter roses drop their petals like bright tears onto the dark cobbles.

  I cannot pretend that I don’t long fo
r the sound of Epona’s hooves on the shale, and even for your stories. Sometimes I badly want to come home, but I could not leave now, not without knowing what made Ryan take his own life. The unanswered question binds me to London. I’ve heard nothing from the journalist, Mr Dillon, not since the wake, but Laurence assures me that he has not forgotten us. I suppose he is busy. I still want to make enquiries of my own. I have been so weary.

  There is something else, too, that I want from London, though I didn’t know it until the possibility became so very real. It will make you smile, because it was you who named me after the goddess of sovereignty: when I return to Ireland, I want to have a profession, and I do not mean that I want to be a governess.

  Silk

  In print as in person, Mr Dillon was discourteous but insightful. He took liberties with politeness that must make him enemies in the City. Rhia looked up from the paper to consider his words. Thousands of looms had become idle or completely out of employ because the free trade laws already allowed unlimited imports of silk from the Orient, and now French producers also wanted a piece of the English market. Such a treaty would mean the end of London silk production and another large community of weavers along with it. It was just the same as what had had happened in Ireland. Today’s report had a sting in its tail.

  If any good has come from the shameful behaviour of the British Navy in the Pearl River, then it is that China silk is not so readily available in London. The downtrodden Spitalfields weavers, therefore, might have a chance to mend their broken looms and feed their children. It is clear that the appetite of industrialists for capital and empire will poison the economy of this country just as they have poisoned the River Thames, ruining the London fishing industry. We might take a moment to reflect that many of the pirates on the river were once fishermen, and that many of the convicts who find themselves in Australia were once weavers.