Land of Hope

by Paul C R Monk

  ‘And whose side would you fight on, my lad?’ said Mr Clement.

  Paul sensed this was an important question, especially as it was asked by none other than one of the men who let people into church. ‘Why, that of freedom of conscience, of course!’ Mr Clement gave a thin-lipped smile of appreciation while the table gave a round of hear-hears.

  Mr Rulland raised his glass. ‘To the birth of our Lord Jesus and freedom of conscience!’

  After dessert, they retired to the spacious, high-ceilinged parlour with crystal chandeliers, where Mrs Clement and her daughters led the singing. Then they merrily played blind man’s buff. Jeanne laughed so hard, it brought tears to her eyes and made her cheeks hurt. It surprised Paul to see her so merry. In fact, he did not recall ever seeing her in such a frivolous state.

  After the fun and games, a collation was served.

  ‘Madame Delpech,’ said Mr Rulland, who was sitting opposite her in a wide-winged armchair. Jeanne was seated on a canapé. There was a low table between them with a tray of mince pies, and Mrs Clement sat in her poised and affable way next to her. ‘I have been given to understand you have a talent for the loom. Surprising of so fair a lady, if I may say so.’

  Both piqued and flattered at the suggestion that weaving was below her, Jeanne said: ‘Surprising, perhaps, but it has stood me well, Sir, and helped me pay my own way.’

  ‘I see. If I may be so bold as to ask, who do you weave for?’

  ‘Actually, I am contemplating acquiring a loom of my own, for the wage I earned at my previous employer was ridiculously low compared to the going rate.’

  ‘I see. So you are without a loom for the moment?’

  ‘I am, Sir. But I have my spinning wheel to keep me going. I should have to move to new lodgings before I install a loom.’

  ‘Madame Delpech says she would very much like to learn silk weaving,’ prompted Madame Clement.

  Jeanne explained: ‘I have been given to understand there is a more lucrative market in silk cloth.’

  ‘Indeed, there is, Madame,’ said Jacques Rulland. Then, licking his lips as though turning over words in his mouth, he inched forward in his seat and said: ‘As a matter of fact, Madame Delpech, silk is one of my workshop’s specialties. Should you be seeking employment, albeit temporary, I should be glad to have you aboard. If you know how to use a loom, then you will learn silk weaving quickly enough.’

  ‘Oh. That is most kind of you, Monsieur Rulland. However—’

  ‘Please,’ said Rulland, sensing the prelude to a rebuff, ‘there is no hurry for an answer. But please, do dwell upon it, Madame.’ He brought out a visiting card and handed it to her. Jeanne thanked him kindly and promised she would.

  From the other side of the room, Mr Clement stood up and suggested a last game of blind man’s buff, to everyone’s delight.

  Rising with her counterparts, Jeanne felt a warmth in her heart with the assurance that should Jacob, alas, not return from Ireland, she need not remain a lonely widow for very long. And then, as the very thought of becoming Jacob’s widow sunk into her slightly fuddled mind, she clasped Paul’s hand and inwardly prayed her husband would return to her, that they would live again as a family.

  *

  Jeanne had had a delightful day in the bourgeois comfort at the Clements’ house in Soho.

  Now she felt like a countess as she was driven through the streets of London, through Bishop’s Gate, up the busy thoroughfare, and through the narrow streets past Spittle Field. How easy it was to fall back into manners of old, she thought. It felt right. She was once a wealthy countess, after all.

  But of course, it was all a sham. Tomorrow, she would be dressed in her common grey petticoats and bodice. Tomorrow, she would be carrying water to her rooms. Tomorrow, she would be lighting faggots, opening windows to let out the smoke, and stuffing rags into gaps to stop up the cracks in the wood burner. If it was sunny, she would be spinning at the window; if it was overcast, she would be spinning by the stove, in spite of the dim light. But that was tomorrow.

  Today, she was a French countess, dressed in elegant simplicity, wrapped in her warm travel cloak, riding through the streets of London in a carriage paid for by a gentleman acquaintance. Mr Rulland in his enthusiasm had even promised to take her for a bucolic ride into rural Hackney, come springtime. Naturally, she had declined; it would not be correct to accept to go on such an outing with a gentleman unless they were accompanied. But she noted that he had not been put out and suspected that he would arrange something with the Clements.

  People glanced up at her as the carriage trundled through the crowded poor districts. Paul was gripped by the view out the opposite window; how strange it was to look at his play area from the height of the carriage. It looked shabby, and he felt ridiculous in his best bourgeois clothes. What would his street mates think?

  They turned left onto Brick Lane, where the road was bumpy, frozen solid into furrows. A knock on the roof interrupted Jeanne’s sumptuous thoughts. It was accompanied by the jangle of harness bells as the carriage came to a halt.

  ‘Maman, we are here,’ said Paul.

  ‘Brick Lane, Madam,’ called the driver.

  Jeanne asked the driver to pull up past Brown’s Lane. He did not need to see where they lived. After descending, she felt the shock of passing from Soho to Brick Lane, and suddenly worried she would be taken for a wealthy bourgeois who had lost her way. She clenched her cloak around her and hurried along with Paul to the tenement building.

  But a few minutes later, they were thankfully climbing the stairs to their rooms. It was getting dark already, and there was a warm glow coming from the door ajar on the landing above. It was accompanied by the sound of scraping, as if furniture was being moved.

  As Jeanne turned the key in the lock, someone came bounding down the stairs. It must be the owner of the pile of linen that had been left on her landing, she thought.

  ‘Oh,’ said a male voice as Jeanne half turned to face the stairs. She saw a young man with cavalier curls. He bowed. ‘Er, I am . . . Monsieur Chausson,’ he said, fumbling for words in English.

  ‘You can speak in French,’ said Jeanne levelly.

  ‘Ah, good, that’s a relief,’ he continued. ‘I am the new weaver, Madame . . .’

  ‘I see. And I am the old one,’ returned Jeanne, unable to keep a sardonic twitch from creasing her brow.

  ‘Oh, I would never have guessed,’ said Chausson, with a fleeting glance at her attire. ‘I . . . I have been admiring your work, Madame. But if you don’t mind me asking, why did you stop?’

  ‘Shall we say . . . discordance,’ returned Jeanne. The word just popped out of her mouth; she did not mean it to refer to any difference of social class, but it seemed so apt for many aspects of her life now.

  ‘I can well understand that,’ said the young weaver. He then explained he had been a journeyman since his arrival from Holland, though he was originally from Tours, where he had been an apprentice. ‘I shan’t be here long, though, a stopgap until I get to grips with the language. Then I’ll get my own premises and a loom of my own,’ he said. Jeanne wondered if Mrs Smythe and the seamstress would let him get away so easily. Without further discussion, he picked up his pile of linen and bid her and the boy season’s greetings and a good evening.

  A few moments later, she sat down on her bed, her dress discordant with her surroundings, her education discordant with her situation, and stared at her spinning wheel, discordant with her breeding. But had she any other choice than to be what she was not? At least she had not betrayed her faith and deepest convictions. Paul came and sat on the bed beside her.

  ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘what will you do if Papa does not come back, like the gentleman implied?’ She looked at him as his eyes welled.

  *

  Jeanne worked through Christmastide and into the New Year, her orders keeping her busy, keeping her mind from becoming wayward. For she had been thinking of her future options, whether Jacob returned or not
.

  She could take up Mr Rulland’s job offer, or wait to purchase a loom once the cold snap was over and she had found new accommodations. The second option would give her freedom from subordination. However, it would also mean living life to the rhythm of the loom beater. But the encounter with the French-born English gentleman and the ride in the carriage also allowed her to realise that she was not as old as she sometimes felt. She still had her breeding and could still attract a husband of quality. And she still had a good few childbearing years ahead of her yet. Should she have to remarry, she knew it would be hard to build an unbreakable bond of love such as the one she had enjoyed with Jacob. She would have to build instead a strategic alliance for the sake of her future, to save herself from the loom and to give her children a station in life that she had forfeited by not recanting her faith in France. Someone like Monsieur Rulland, who had known true love and would have more pragmatic expectations, might be a prime choice.

  Sitting at her wheel, she gazed out at the barren yards lit up by rare winter sunshine, as her ears pricked to the sound of heavy masculine footsteps on the stairway. The new weaver returned to his room every day at lunchtime. No doubt to escape the oppression of Mrs Smythe, thought Jeanne. She had left him to his own devices, had exchanged neighbourly greetings whenever they crossed on the landing. He looked the part and seemed to be getting on well, especially with the girl. On returning from the market, Jeanne often heard gales of laughter coming from the workshop and overheard the seamstress correcting his English. The girl was apparently showing a better frame of mind with him than she had done with her. And Jeanne had once heard a soft giggle and two sets of footsteps creeping up to his room. It was looking as though young Nelly would catch herself a weaver after all. And why not? She was pretty; she would teach him English; they would make a complementary team when setting up business.

  Their alliance made sense, as had hers with Jacob. Jeanne born into a noble family, he a wealthy notary, and they had made a beautiful family, shattered by the folly and intolerance of the Catholic Church and a king.

  The steps halted outside her door. She turned on her stool with sudden alarm on the second rap. ‘I’m coming . . .’ she called out as she stood up. Crossing the room, she tucked her fringe beneath her bonnet. Dear God, she said to herself, closing her eyes, bracing herself for the dreaded news she had been half expecting. But as she stepped forward, the doorknob was turned. The door flung open. There stood not one but two people. Paul in the arms of his father!

  Jacob stood wordless on the threshold as Paul scrambled to the ground.

  Dumbfounded, Jeanne stopped in her tracks, four yards from the door, and let her hands drop to her sides. Jacob, thinner, rugged, and dressed in a grey military overcoat, was barely recognisable as the middle-aged, portly merchant-planter she last saw nigh on four yours ago. Attired in a simple grey dress, wisps of hair escaping from beneath a white bonnet, Jeanne stared intently with her pale blue eyes.

  ‘Jeanne?’ said Jacob. She realised how she must look to him; he had never seen her in a cloth maker’s garb. ‘My dear Jeanne,’ he continued. Her eyes studied the soldier’s uniform, then his face. He had a scar on his right cheek, half covered by his beard of two weeks.

  Paul tugged on his father’s thumb, and Jacob stepped into the room. ‘I expect you are hungry,’ said Jeanne.

  ‘I expect you are angry,’ said Jacob.

  Jeanne shook her head. His eyes conveyed to her his deepest regret and told her he realised all she had suffered. She bowed her head into her knuckle; then she lunged towards him. He took a step forward and met her grasp with his embrace.

  ‘I am here now,’ he said, kissing her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips.

  Paul said: ‘I will go and fetch some more wood.’

  ‘And some beef!’ said Jeanne, cheerily, wiping away her tears of joy as the boy flew out, closing the front door behind him.

  She turned back to Jacob. ‘Our daughters . . .’ she began. But he put a finger on her lips.

  ‘I know. Paul told me.’

  She guided him to the room next door, removed his greatcoat, then his jacket, his smell invading her senses. ‘Does it still hurt a lot?’ she said, on sensing him flinch at the touch of his left shoulder.

  ‘Not anymore,’ he said. He scooped her up like a newlywed and carried her to the rope bed, where he had thrown his hat.

  *

  Jeanne caressed his bosom with her palm, then ran her fingers lightly over his left shoulder, softly exploring the deep red scar in his flesh.

  ‘It still hurts.’

  ‘It twinges. Still cannot raise it above my head, but I should rather count myself lucky. Half a span further, and it would have been my neck . . .’

  She placed an ear to his chest so she could listen to his beating heart. ‘I missed you. I missed us, Jacob,’ she said as he caressed her hair. Then she raised her head as a sudden thought pierced her mind. She said: ‘You are not going back.’ He touched her temple lightly with his right hand but remained wordless. ‘Jacob . . . Jacob?’

  ‘The war is not over, my Jeanne. I must return when the campaign resumes. But we’ll have time to work things out.’

  Jeanne sat bolt upright, her steely eyes glaring at him with indignation. ‘Jacob, don’t you dare! I have been through hellfire and heartache to follow you here. We have to get our children back and build a home. For the love of Christ, you will not leave me again, Jacob Delpech!’

  Jacob was both moved and reassured by her passionate outburst. She loved him, and he felt it in his heart. Nevertheless, trying to reason with her, he said: ‘Jeanne, my dear beloved wife, I have thought of nothing else since I left Belfast. All the way, I have been tossing it over in my mind. But—’

  ‘No, Jacob, no excuses! You will not leave me here in this horrid place! I can’t anymore . . .’

  ‘Wait, Jeanne, hear me out,’ said Jacob, gently catching hold of her hands. ‘You are right, and we have much to do. But the truth of the matter is . . . I need a wage.’

  ‘I have heard it said at church that some soldiers will be allowed indefinite leave with a pension equivalent to half their normal pay. We shall move away to somewhere cheaper. We have never been city people, Jacob. We shall find a place in the country, near a port.’

  Jeanne sat up straight, her ample breasts moving freely under her shift. She was still a beautiful woman; her hips were wider than when they first met, but she had maintained her figure.

  He reached over for his jacket, slumped on the chair, and pulled out a pouch from his inner pocket.

  ‘The truth is, my pay is in arrears. My partner is dead. This is my only treasure, my dear wife.’

  Jacob reached then for the tray on which Jeanne had served him bread and cheese. He placed it upon the bed between them and rolled five acorn faces from the pouch onto it.

  ‘These are what have kept me going, and they are frankly all I have left. I shall not stop until we are all together, Jeanne! Even if it means going back to war!’

  Jeanne locked eyes with her husband. She read desperation and determination. He read compassion and resolution as she said more softly: ‘You will not have to go back to war, Jacob . . .’

  She jumped off the bed. He watched her hips swaying gracefully as she moved across the room to fetch her great cloak. She then skipped back and sat on the edge of the bed with a knife and carefully began unstitching the cloak’s lining, the chill in the air making her nipples point under her shift.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Wait, and you will see,’ she said.

  He was thinking to himself how he had missed her body when she pulled out her hand from the lining to reveal a small leather drawstring pouch, one which normally carried change. Without a word, she untied the mouth. Then she poured not loose change, but diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds next to Jacob’s acorns. Amazed, he recognised the diamonds, the pearls, and the gemstones that had been set in her ancestry jewels, her diadem
, the necklace he had bought her . . .

  ‘Why, you clever, clever lady!’ he said joyfully, his hand meeting hers.

  Jeanne explained how she once nearly lost them, how she had constantly sewn them into her coat, her skirt, her bodice, changing places lest someone suspected their presence. She told him about the horrid pauper who stole her coat, thinking her jewels were inside the lining, then how he had followed her and stolen her bag, leaving her for dead. She spoke about her life in Geneva, her stay in Schaffhausen, and her escape with Paul through the war-torn region of the Palatinate.

  ‘Now, Jacob. You shall not go back to war. We have both been through enough wars. And we have means to find a home for your acorn family!’

  He placed the tray beside the bed and wrapped her in his arms as they heard footsteps, deliberately loud on the stairs. Jeanne quickly whipped her shawl around her shoulders as the latch was lifted and Paul entered the room next door.

  He put down the basket of wood and placed the slab of beef on the table. Responding to his mother’s call, he entered the bedroom where he looked coyly but contentedly at both his parents in the bed in the middle of the day. His bashful smile broadened when his gaze fell on the tray. Upon it, he saw the gemstones. Among them, he saw the acorn faces he had made all those years ago in the farmhouse where he stayed with his mother and sisters. He wished they could all be together now.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Amid the seething melee of fighting men, Jacob suddenly remembered to never leave his flank exposed. He swung round desperately, wildly clashing sabres as another determined assassin came upon him . . .

  ‘Jacob. Jacob, darling. You were having one of your bad dreams . . .’

  They came less frequently nowadays, but when they did, he felt drained of energy and at odds with himself, as if his soul had been scathed. Then, as always, he remembered he had killed a man. In fact, he had purposely killed twice. Once in the woods of a Cuban township when he shot an assailant in the chest, and once with his sword in a cornfield in the Carlingford mountains that overlooked Dundalk Bay.