Land of Hope

by Paul C R Monk

  If her plan worked, in time her deft little seamstress would take on the heavier cloth, leaving Madame Delpech to take the beam of a new loom.

  The place was all aglow. She had lit a few extra lamps, which made the silk thread shimmer even more beautifully. And she had got the wood burner crackling earlier than usual so that the chill would be chased from the room come daylight.

  The seamstress entered first as per her habit, for Mrs Smythe detested a late start. She allowed an exception to the rule, however, for the French lady who would invariably sail through the door like a breeze without so much as a word of excuse. But Mrs Smythe had learnt to keep the peace for the sake of good working relations, and generally made an extra effort to force her pout into a thin smile. But this morning, Madame was even later than usual, and pushed the door a full hour after sunrise.

  Jeanne thought it pointless to sit down at the loom until it was light enough for her to see properly. And sometimes, the London sky was so dingy, she could hardly see properly even at midday. On those days, she would have to get the girl Nelly to do all the setting. With such a lack of bright light here, was it any wonder that weavers in France had the edge over the English when it came to colour? Not to mention that the windows here should be bigger, not smaller, to let in more light. Nevertheless, she was becoming used to the changes of life and the gloomy London sky. She had purchased warm second-hand clothes at the rag market at Petticoat Lane, and had managed to get Paul into the school at the Huguenot Church on Artillery Lane, a ten-minute walk from their rooms.

  But she still had not gotten any news from her husband since early autumn, when she received a letter from him that spoke of his wound. As an enlisted officer, he had been obliged to remain at a place called Lurgan until the decision was given to end the season’s war campaign and go into winter quarters. He had hoped this would mean getting leave to winter in England. She had written back to him, bidding him again to quit the army. She would rather live frugally with her gentleman merchant than receive a widow’s pension. She had refrained, however, from mentioning that her daughters were still not with her.

  The only news she had received since that last letter was through Mrs Smythe. She had been informed by the army that Monsieur de Sève would not be returning to her lodging house.

  Jeanne had kept going, living on her meagre revenue, which she knew through Marie-Anne she could greatly increase if she offered her services to another employer. But working in the same building meant she would at least be accessible for Paul should he need her, and be there when he returned after schooling. And this morning, she had remained at his bedside, stroking his forehead, for he had come down with a nasty cold.

  ‘Ladies,’ said Jeanne in greeting as she entered the room that was noticeably warmer than usual. ‘It is so cold this morning. I cannot believe it!’

  Mrs Smythe struggled not to mention the lateness of the hour. She must retain her superior calmness, for Madame Delpech had already shown an ugly turn of temper on a number of occasions. Especially on one occasion, when Mrs Smythe tried to impose an extra hour of work during lunch. Jeanne had stormed off in a huff and would not return to work until two days later, narrowly averting a commercial catastrophe with one of the clients.

  ‘Ah, Madame Delpech, have you noticed anything—apart from the lateness of the hour?’ she said, which she immediately regretted, and tried to cover up the slip of the tongue with a benevolent smile.

  ‘My son vas poorly zis night,’ returned Jeanne as she scoured the room, smiled to Nelly, and noticed the shiny columns of silk thread. She took her seat at the loom.

  ‘Well, I hope he gets better quick. Now, Madame Delpech, I have purchased the silk we spoke about last week so that you may start practicing on small items such as—’

  ‘But I am sorry, Madam, I told you. I do not know about ze silk.’

  Of course you don’t, my sweetie, thought Mrs Smythe. She cracked another smile and went on: ‘But you can learn, can’t you?’

  ‘How I learn?’ said Jeanne, who never asked to become a silk weaver in the first place. ‘I do not want.’

  ‘Come, Madame Delpech, you are French. You must know something of silk. I suspect you are hiding your true colours again . . .’

  ‘I do not do silk,’ said Jeanne, more insistently. But her limited command of the English language turned her insistence into something bordering on rancour.

  ‘While you are in my employ, Madame, you will have to learn!’ said Mrs Smythe. She would not be talked down to by an employee who, what was more, lived virtually free of charge under her roof.

  Jeanne’s English had come along to allow her to express the bare necessities, but it left her without linguistic defence when it came to a verbal battle. Moreover, she now found herself physically trapped. For it would be unwise to move at the beginning of winter. ‘I am not a silk weaver, Madam!’ she said as her only defence.

  Mrs Smythe’s plan was going awry. She had hoped her good humour and the effort to purchase the beautiful silk thread would have incited the French woman to go the extra mile to satisfy her employer. Did the woman not have any professional pride? Nevertheless, Mrs Smythe was not done yet. ‘Madame,’ she said, trying to calm the tense atmosphere, ‘I am prepared to increase your hours and pay.’

  ‘It will make not difference,’ said Jeanne. ‘I am not qualified to do silk!’

  ‘Ah, but if it is the London guild you are worried about, Madame, we are outside their jurisdiction. Why else do you think your countrymen have settled here outside the city walls?’

  That was interesting to know, thought Jeanne. But even so, she would not be whipped into doing something she could not do properly. ‘No, I say, Madam!’ said Jeanne with finality. ‘Now, I must go to my son!’ She got to her feet and sailed out, head poised, into the half light of the freezing cold staircase.

  *

  Paul was sleeping open-mouthed. Jeanne wondered what she would do were she without him. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, Paul. We shall be out of here once I have found somewhere. We shall move to a nicer place.’

  The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on his cuff. ‘We don’t have any money,’ he said in his indomitable voice of reason. Then he sneezed.

  Jeanne sat down on the four-poster rope bed; then she lay her head down beside him. She decided she would not return to the workshop. She would not work in any workshop. She closed her eyes, and fell into a comforting sleep.

  *

  There was a knock at the door.

  Jeanne awoke to a glacial room, the wood burner having consumed its fuel. The tip of her nose was cold, but it was warm as toast in bed with her son, snuggled under the covers. She got up and covered over Paul, who groaned and sneezed.

  ‘Yes, I am coming!’ she called out in French in answer to a more insistent knock. She straightened her shawl and pinned back her hair, then opened the door.

  ‘Madame,’ said Mrs Smythe, standing on the landing with her big overcoat on.

  ‘Madam?’ Jeanne returned.

  ‘I fear there has been a misunderstanding.’

  Jeanne let the landlady stand on the threshold and looked levelly into her eyes, her head slightly held back. ‘You mean?’

  ‘I mean I would be much obliged if you returned to work. There is an order for your woollen fabrics. I am willing to overlook the silk until I find someone qualified to weave it, which should not be difficult as I will be offering lodgings with the job.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jeanne, who guessed where the landlady was leading. It was surely a preamble to her eviction, was it not?

  ‘Now, concerning your rent. Knowing your current circumstances, I have refrained from bringing it up.’

  ‘Rent?’

  ‘Yes, Madame. Your husband only paid for your first three months of accommodation here. So from August to the end of October. He said the money would be sent to you as part of his pay.’

  Jeanne recalled the letter from Jacob, in which he bri
efly explained that his pay was in arrears, but that he had been told it would arrive shortly, and that money would be sent over to her.

  The truth was that the Huguenot soldiers had not been paid for months. It was not considered urgent. They would hardly abscond; they had nowhere to go. Jacob had been able to borrow money for his own needs, but had no means to get any monies to his wife.

  Mrs Smythe went on. ‘In a letter from your husband, he asked me to allow him extra time to pay the rent. Well, I have kept my word, but the fact remains . . . your husband is in a dangerous line of work, is he not? All the newsletter reports are not good, and dare I say it, for all I know, he may even have gone the same way as Monsieur de Sève. For all I know, I may well get a message from the army like the one I got for Monsieur de Sève. Then what?’

  Jeanne remained proud, unmoved, and dignified despite the turmoil inside and the freezing cold draft whirling up the stairwell.

  Mrs Smythe went on. ‘I am sure you are aware there has been a massacre due to camp fever. Now, you are six weeks in arrears, Madame. But, I am prepared for you to pay it back in instalments. That is, as long as I am able to count on your continued services to cover all the incoming orders. At least, until I have found a replacement for you.’

  Jeanne realised Mrs Smythe was playing her trump card. But Jeanne also knew that Mrs Smythe was desperate to complete the orders, so she remained silent and let her suffer a little bit more.

  ‘What do you say, Madame?’

  ‘I say it is unfair,’ said Jeanne at last.

  ‘On the contrary, I have been very fair in saving you from the burden and strain of this debt. However, you will understand, I have a business to run, and a lodging house in high demand. Why, rents in the neighbourhood are going sky-high; the lands are being snapped up for building. You will not find a more spacious set of rooms for the price! Put yourself in my shoes, Madame.’

  ‘I say it is unfair because you pay under the market rate!’

  ‘Oh, so have I not been fair in employing you despite your lack of knowledge in silk? Weave silk, my fair lady, and I will pay you more!’ Jeanne, putting her fist on her waist, was about to reply, but, holding up her hand, Mrs Smythe forestalled her. ‘Nonetheless, Madame . . . Nonetheless, I will up your rate by a penny.’ Mrs Smythe then pulled out a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to Jeanne. ‘Here, Madame Delpech,’ she said affably, ‘here are the details of the rent in arrears.’ Jeanne took the slip. Mrs Smythe continued. ‘May I leave it with you, Madame? I hope I can expect you downstairs tomorrow morning to fulfil the orders.’

  The landlady turned to leave, then checked herself. ‘Oh, and how is your son?’

  ‘Recovering, thank you, Madam,’ said Jeanne. Then she slammed the door shut, harder than she had intended.

  *

  Jeanne would not be walked over and exploited by a lowly workshop keeper, she thought, quite snobbishly, a trait that had nonetheless carried her above the lowly emotion of self-pity.

  Through her church contacts, she told herself she was bound to find her own clientele. She had heard stories of Huguenots, from silversmiths to weavers, finding their feet and excelling in their endeavours, so why couldn’t she? The London population was clearly open to the fashion and techniques brought from France, despite the war. And now she knew that being outside the city walls meant she would not be subject to London guild rules.

  But what to do about the rent in arrears? She simply did not have the ready cash to release herself from Mrs Smythe’s debt. She was not alone, though. She would go to the church. She would seek advice from Pastor Daniel. If he had no answer regarding the legality of Mrs Smythe’s proposition, at least he could put her in touch with someone who could help her.

  It was bitter cold, and a flurry of snow covered the walk to the church on Threadneedle Street. This was the mother of Huguenot churches in and around London, where, like all Huguenots in the area, Jeanne had been registered, and through which Jacob sent his correspondence. It was also where she felt most in phase with her true nature, which made her suspect what a snob she really must be. For the Huguenots in this district belonged mostly to a higher class of craftsmen than those of the church on Artillery Lane, who were mostly cloth workers.

  At every turn of a corner, Jeanne never ceased to marvel at the maze of endless lanes and streets, not to mention the array of means of transport that conveyed people through them. The moment she stepped through the city gate, it all felt both grandiose and belittling. And it made her realise that she was really a country girl at heart after all.

  Catholic and Protestant bells rang out in unison as they had once done in France. Jeanne had long since noticed that people did their business whatever your creed or confession here, unlike in today’s France, where a foreigner was a stranger and being a non-Catholic was a crime punishable by death or a life at the oar. And to think, Jeanne used to believe that this kind of intolerance belonged to a time when people still wondered whether God had made the world flat or round. But it was happening today in her home country, whereas here, in this city of business par excellence, the religious freedom transcended the society, opening avenues and offering opportunities.

  The south-facing church steps were glistening in a pool of sunshine that had melted away the night’s frost. She pushed the small side door into the church, where a choir was practicing. She said a prayer and then marched to the sacristy, where she gave good day to Samuel Clement, the warden.

  ‘I fear Pastor Daniel is out, Madame Delpech,’ said Mr Clement affably. ‘But if you have come about the letter, I can give it to you.’

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘Yes, from the army, I believe,’ said Mr Clement, turning to a neatly placed pile of correspondence.

  The mention of a letter from the army wiped away Jeanne’s thoughts of her present dilemma as she feared the worst. A moment later, Mr Clement handed her the letter in question, sealed with the stamp of the army. She took it with solemn thanks and said she would open it later. She could not take another setback just now.

  ‘Are you all right, Madame Delpech?’ said Mr Clement.

  Jeanne assured him she was fine. She thanked him again, told him to give her regards to his good wife, and walked out of the house of God. It was not a place to face her disillusionment.

  Numbed by the shock, she took to walking the streets of London. A thin film of ice had formed over puddles in shaded streets where the pavement was uneven. Her feet took her down towards the river, where no tall buildings would oppress her. How she longed for open fields; how she missed the great sun-filled plain where she was born, where she had been so happy. Why is happiness such a perishable thing, she wondered, and so difficult to preserve?

  She soon found herself at the riverside by Dowgate Dock, near Three Cranes Stairs. Only the buildings on London Bridge to her left blocked her view. She felt faint for lack of something inside her. She sat down on a bench and watched the boats and wherries carrying passengers wrapped up for the cold, back and forth across the Thames. She sat with her thoughts amid distant cries from stevedores and dockhands, fish wives and merchants as the old river continued its course before her under the leaden sky.

  What should she do now? she wondered. How could she go on if the letter she was holding announced that Jacob had succumbed to his wounds or had contracted the terrible camp fever? Either way, crying about it would not help her situation. So she just sat there, gathering her thoughts.

  ‘Madam. Nice day, innit?’ said a cheery male voice beside her.

  It was a warm voice, and a word of kindness would not go amiss right now. She glanced to her right and gave good day and a guarded smile to the gruff-looking gent, who had taken it upon himself to take a seat beside her. She did not want to appear a snob.

  ‘French?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I like a bit o’ French,’ said the man, with a crafty leer. Jeanne was not sure she understood right. He continued. ‘How much then, eh?’ Jean
ne then looked at him in shock and horror. ‘Come on, my lovely,’ coaxed the man, sliding closer. ‘How’s about sixpence for a grope and a suck?’

  Jeanne stamped to her feet, but he grabbed her arm.

  ‘Only askin’, ain’t I?’ he said in banter. Jeanne shook her arm from his grasp and scurried away with his barking laugh in her ears.

  God, she thought, had it all come to this? Prostitution or the life of a labourer in a weave room?

  The bells of St Paul’s rang out behind her as she turned eastward onto Thames Street. She reflected on the possible missed chances God had laid in her path. The chance to recant, for example. Had she done so, she would still be in her beloved Montauban. Had she abjured, she would still have her children about her now, warming themselves by a well-fuelled fire. She would have lived in disaccord with her convictions, but maybe that was the price to pay.

  Had she refused the path of abjuration out of pure selfishness?

  If not, then for what? For the sake of religious freedom? For the right of every man and woman to follow their beliefs and their intimate convictions? For the right to walk through the doors of the church of their choice? For the right to denounce the Catholic one-thought regime, appropriated by unworthy men who created chains of power and worshipped their moneymaking schemes? Who had immorally attached their laws and political aspirations to the teachings of Christ?

  Jeanne slipped on a puddle on Fish Street but managed to recover her balance. She continued on her train of thought.

  True, she would still be in Montauban, but the world would be condemned to a one-thought regime if she, Jacob, and people like them had not resisted the temptation of choosing the easy path. That was all very high and mighty, but what now?

  She suddenly wondered if her outlook on life was all wrong.

  ‘Madam. Madam!’

  Jeanne turned around at the call of an approaching lady. She stopped walking to let the young woman catch up with her.