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.
The ground floor remains dedicated to the business—the showroom in the front and their shared office and studio at the back—although their eldest son, Jean, has recently persuaded his father to support the rental of a new “manufactory”: three large warehouse rooms on the other side of Brick Lane where the silk is stored, throwsters throw, and warps are wound. There is less “leakage” that way, he says.
He is talking about setting up his own looms in the manufactory, too, so that they can meet the requirements of new laws setting weavers’ pay. That way, he says, they will not have to support the costs of weavers working at home, as they will weave at his looms and he can pay them by the piece. “It’s so much more efficient, Papa,” he says. “And we can keep a closer eye on quality.”
The business has survived turbulent times. In the face of new import freedoms, many, even some of the most successful, foundered, thousands of weavers were put out of work, and their families starved. Other companies moved out of London altogether, to avoid paying the rates demanded by the new acts. Henri always claimed that the survival of Lavalle, Vendôme & Sons was entirely due to the extraordinary achievements of their in-house designer.
The princess was not clothed in Henri’s silk for her nuptial celebrations, but it was chosen by one of her ladies-in-waiting, which was enough to catch the eye of the new queen. Herself an amateur botanist, she took the new naturalism to heart and promulgated it widely amongst her acolytes. Straight lines and geometrical patterns were sent into the wilderness as the artist Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty became the benchmark for artistic endeavor. The serpentine curve became de rigueur in fashion, furnishings, furniture, and all other decorative arts.
Her paintings have never been hung on walls, as Mr. Gainsborough suggested, but for nearly four decades, Anna Vendôme’s designs have been worn and highly sought after by society ladies. As the orders flooded in, Henri was compelled to employ more than a hundred weavers to keep up with demand. Their silks were even exported across the Atlantic, to be worn by the wealthy aristocrats of the newly independent United States of America.
The mercers Sadler & Son profited too, becoming one of Henri’s major customers, although they saw little of the family in society. Aunt Sarah finally achieved her lifetime ambition of moving to Ludgate Hill, just along from the Hinchliffes. She is now a grandmother several times over, with Lizzie well married into a wealthy family and William’s two sons following him into the business.
How did I manage to do it all, Anna wonders, while giving birth to seven children, burying four of them, and raising the remaining three into adulthood? Mariette fell in love with and married the son of a silversmith whom she met at the French church—they live just a few streets away. She and Anna are like sisters and supported each other in caring for M. Lavalle and Clothilde—who was eventually persuaded to move into the house when she became too frail to work—as they neared the end of their lives.
Then, just as things were becoming easier, Theodore died suddenly while delivering a sermon in his dear, old village church. Just as he would have had it, people said at the funeral, but it was no solace for Anna, who has missed him dearly every day since. Jane came to live with them and remains with them still, which is great consolation, for she is a dear thing, uncomplicated and undemanding, and has been a wonderful helpmeet with the children.
Throughout all of this sorrow and the heavy demands of domestic life, Anna has always managed to steal a few hours for her painting and designing. She loves to work in the office alongside Henri and their two sons, observing the coming and going of traders and weavers, enjoying and sometimes joining their conversations about trade, money, and politics.
Occasionally she will persuade her husband, or one of her children, to accompany her to the new Royal Academy of Arts exhibitions to see Mr. Gainsborough’s work, or to the British Museum where she can study and sketch the natural curiosities collected by Sir Hans Sloane. Before he died, Mr. Ehret introduced her to the books of botanical studies held in the library there, which have become a constant inspiration for her work. Dear Mr. Ehret. In his will he left Anna two of his prints, which hang on the walls of the salon with pride. Whenever she looks at them, she recalls how he taught her to observe line, shading, and color, right down to the tiniest detail. What a great debt I owe the man, she thinks to herself.
She remembers her own vague, unfocused longing on arriving in London, how the appreciation of the fascinating and surprising world all around her only led to greater frustration because, as her aunt would have it, a young lady entering polite society could not be allowed to have an occupation outside the home. She would never have been able to endure spending the rest of her life as an ornament for a conventional husband but, at the time, could see no way of avoiding that path.
Despite the unpromising start, she has enjoyed the most wonderful life in this city, she thinks to herself, a life full of family love, and of artistic and intellectual interest. She could not have asked for more.
And it is all on account of one man, the one now sleeping peacefully in his chair on the other side of the hearth. He snores lightly, shifts in his chair, and opens his eyes briefly, smiles at her and then falls asleep again. Even after all this time, his smile can still ambush her heart, causing it a momentary pause, a contraction of love.
She had known, of course, from the very moment that he rescued her on the street, and he claims that was the moment he knew, too. But she feels sure that, were it not for his moment of drunken foolishness, followed by his arrest and imprisonment, they would now be unhappily married to others. Both acknowledge that Charlotte was the agent of their good fortune and frequently tease her about it.
As their friendship deepened and the trust between them became stronger, Anna felt able gently to probe the seamstress about her personal life: how she managed to remain single and run her own independent business. At first she was reticent, but one day, when they had taken a good meal and a few glasses of claret together, Charlotte confided her greatest, most intimate secret.
She was the fourth daughter of a respectable family that had fallen on hard times when their father died prematurely, she said, and had been forced to find herself a job as seamstress to the household of a noble family. Unfortunately, the duke had a roving eye, which soon enough settled on the seventeen-year-old Charlotte, and he pressed his attentions upon her so forcibly that she had submitted for fear of losing her job.
A few months later, finding the situation insufferable, she began to resist him, with the inevitable consequence that she was told to leave. Her oldest sister, now married to a country vicar, took her in but, within a few short weeks, it became clear that the duke’s attentions had left an unwanted legacy.
The vicar feared that the scandal could lose him his living, but his wife, who for six years had failed to bear him a child, persuaded him that they could adopt the baby, pretending that it was theirs. Charlotte was sent away for her confinement while her sister wore cushions of ever-increasing size beneath her dresses. Thus it was that Peter—for that was his name—became Charlotte’s “nephew.”
“He has a better life than I could ever have provided, and I see him every month. Although,” she added wistfully, “I feel our parting each time like the cut of a knife.”
“Did you never want to marry, so that you could take him back?”
Charlotte paused and poured herself another glass of wine. “No, I am happy as I am. I have worked hard to set up my business, and if I married, I might have to give it up. Besides, how can I ever trust any man again?” she said. “And how could I take my son away from my sister when they have loved him as their own for so many years?”
Peter is now grown into a handsome young man with children of his own who frequently visited their “great-aunt.” Anna, invited to meet them one day, could plainly see the likeness of her friend reflected in their faces, and Charlotte’s pride and happiness in their company was a joy to behold.
• • •
To everyone in the family but her father, theirs had seemed such an unlikely match. Anna can still recall the look of utter horror on Aunt Sarah’s face when Henri turned up at Spital Square that morning.
“Mr. Henri Vendôme, madam,” Betty announced.
“Tell him he has come to the wrong address. The business entrance is next door,” her aunt said firmly.
“No, Aunt, he has come to see Father,” Anna cried, dropping the book with which she had been trying unsuccessfully to occupy herself for the past half hour. She flew down the stairs to where Henri was waiting on the doorstep, nervously shifting from foot to foot, smart but uncomfortable in his best blue serge, his hair neatly tied back beneath what looked like a new cap. Under his arm was a brown paper parcel containing the silk brocade.
“Come in, come up,” she said, beckoning him with a conspiratorial wink. “Father knows.” When they reached the top of the stairs, Theodore was already on the landing. Anna pushed Henri forward and the two men shook hands.
In an unsteady voice, Henri began, “Sir, I have come to ask—”
“Don’t stand on ceremony, boy,” Theodore said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Anna has already told me the reason for your visit. Of course you have my consent. Knowing how she feels about you, I could not be more delighted.”
At that point, Sarah emerged from the salon door with Lizzie behind her. “Whatever is going on out here?” she snapped.
“Sister dear, meet my future son-in-law, Henri,” Theodore announced. “Henri, this is my sister, Mrs. Sarah Sadler, and my niece, Elizabeth.” Henri offered his hand, but it was ignored. Aunt Sarah’s mouth gaped, her jowls flapping loosely, as though she had seen an apparition.
Lizzie had a fit of the giggles and was burbling congratulations when her mother seemed to gather her senses. “Have you lost your mind, Theodore?” she gasped before turning to Anna. “Have I not warned you about the unsuitability of this sort of friendship?”
Anna stood firm, holding tightly on to Henri’s hand in case he felt minded to bolt. “Come into the drawing room,” she said, pulling him past Sarah and Lizzie through the doorway.
“Sir, I must ask you to leave while we discuss the matter,” Sarah said. Anna could hear her uncle’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Hello, hello. Do we have company?” he bellowed. At the sight of Henri, he stopped in his tracks. “And who is this, may I be so bold?”
“My fiancé, Uncle,” Anna said. “Please let me introduce you to Monsieur Henri Vendôme.”
Henri held out the parcel that he’d tucked under his arm. “I am pleased to meet you, sir. I have brought the silk as discussed, for consideration for the royal wedding.”
“Then why did you not call at the tradesmen’s entrance, boy?”
“He is my fiancé, Uncle, as I said. He has gained permission from Father for my hand. Isn’t it wonderful? And he has kindly brought the fabric he has woven from my design that William told you about at breakfast, remember?” Anna took the parcel from Henri and ran to the window, ripping open the string and paper, and allowed the silk to unfold, glittering and gleaming in the light just as it had done at Wood Street the previous day.
“Good God,” Joseph said, coming to the window to see for himself. “That is a very fine piece of silk, young man, and a most striking design.”
He pulled his magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket and lifted the fabric close to his face.
“Did you weave this yourself?”
“I did, sir. It is my master piece.”
Joseph put his eye to the glass once more. “Excellent work. I very much admire your use of points rentrées; seems to have gone out of fashion of late, but this makes for very fine definition of your curves. Tricky stuff. Remind me again, who is your designer?”
“For goodness’ sake, Uncle,” Anna burst out. “Were you not listening when I told you at breakfast? It is my design.”
He frowned at her. “But how…?”
“I will explain later, but for now, will you all please welcome into your house Henri Vendôme, the young man I intend to marry?”
• • •
The old grandfather clock strikes ten o’clock, interrupting her reverie. The fire has burned low, and she considers putting on another log. But tomorrow will be another full day, and they both need their rest, now that they are old.
She puts down her tapestry and steps over to the sleeping man, gently takes the newspaper from his hands, and kisses him on the forehead.
“Come, Husband,” she whispers. “It’s time for bed.”