The Silk Weaver

My dearest father,

Today has been the happiest of my life so far in London, for I have made a friend. Her name is Charlotte, and she is a dressmaker – or more correctly I should call her a ‘costumière’, for that is what it says over the door to her shop. She has made all my gowns most beautifully and today I collected the most delicious velvet cloak with a fur collar and muff to match. I shall be the warmest girl in town!

She is really the most admirable person, independent and unmarried as far as I can tell and conducting what seems to be a very successful business all on her own account. Today, when I went to collect the cloak, she invited me into her parlour for tea and we had the most delightful conversation about art and fashion.

What I most admire is that she appears unconcerned regarding social status. Despite being in ‘trade’, as Aunt Sarah would say, Charlotte speaks to everyone: society folk and working folk, men and women, in the same straightforward way without being patronising or obsequious. It is as if, in her mind, all classes and both sexes are perfectly equal. How wonderful it would be if we were all to be treated so.

Please do not mention this to Uncle or Aunt for I am sure they would not approve. But I am so delighted with my afternoon that I simply had to share it with someone.

Oh, and Aunt Sarah will doubtless write to you regarding an invitation I have received to a ball at the Inns of Court, by a young man called Charles Hinchliffe, a lawyer. She thinks he is the perfect match for me. He is interesting, but I feel little for him, so although she is very excited about this, please do not hold your breath for news of any developments in that quarter!

Give Jane a big hug for me, and tell her that I will write to her again very soon.

Your loving daughter,

Anna

‘You look like the cat that drank the cream, Anna,’ Lizzie remarked at supper, and Aunt Sarah added, ‘You certainly have a bloom to your cheek this evening, Niece. Have you received some good news from home, perhaps?’

Anna managed to deflect their questions without lying: ‘It is just that I am so delighted with my new cloak, dearest Aunt, and the muff, that I cannot help smiling with the pleasure of it. Thank you so much for your great generosity.’

Her letter told only one part of the story, of course: her joy was two-fold. She had genuinely enjoyed getting to know Charlotte better, and felt an increasing respect for her independent way of living, her confident manner and strength of character. She certainly would like to count her as a friend, although she had no idea whether the affection would be reciprocated.

But by far the larger part of Anna’s elation, the part that made her smile for no apparent reason and caused a catch in her breath when she thought about it, was the serendipity of meeting with Henri. It felt like an unexpected and joyful gift, to have had the opportunity of being able to converse naturally with him, as an equal, without guilt or fear of being found out.

The content of that conversation had been fascinating and challenging: they started with a discussion about Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty, with Charlotte giving her opinion on how it might apply to the world of fashion. This was followed by Henri’s explanation of points rentrées and how he hoped to set up his loom to achieve the realism of her sketch. When Anna ventured to mention Mr Ehret, they both seemed to have heard of him and were impressed that she had actually had the chance to discuss botanical drawing with such a respected master.

Throughout all of the discussion, Anna struggled to tear her eyes away from Henri’s face. She was simply captivated by him: the intense chestnut brown of his eyes, his olive skin and his broken English, his modesty and his easy sense of humour. She was enthralled by the breadth of his knowledge and obvious confidence when talking about his work.

When he spoke of his master and of his widowed mother it was with such love and respect that she immediately wanted to meet them, to tell them how fortunate they were to have such a young man in their lives. Now, she felt his absence as an almost physical ache and yearned to see him again, to get to know more of him and to share more of herself with him.

And yet, she remembered with a sudden unpleasant jolt, there really was no future in such a friendship. She was here in London to find a wealthy husband and it was madness to entertain fancies about a poor journeyman silk weaver, a Frenchman at that. Besides, in the eyes of her aunt, she was practically engaged to Charlie Hinchliffe. Sarah was convinced that the invitation to the ball, which was to take place in just three days’ time, was a declaration of intent, and a proposal would shortly follow. Anna could not decide what she felt about such a prospect.

A part of her was flattered because Charles was undoubtedly what her aunt called ‘a good match’. Before long he would surely be a man of some means – so long as he could curb his gambling habits – and would keep his wife and her dependents in some comfort. But, try as she might to reassure herself, she could imagine no joy in such a life. She would become mistress of the house and an elegant lady, an ornament in Charles’s life to charm his wealthy clients and aid his rise in society. How does any woman manage to endure such a pointless existence? she sighed to herself. I would surely die of boredom within a year.

But what else could a woman do, when men seemed to hold all the power and all the purse strings? If only she had a skill with which she could earn a living, like Miss Charlotte. But apart from keeping house, doing laundry and cooking meals she had none, and who wanted to be a housekeeper for the rest of their lives? She could paint, of course, and improve her technique on the harpsichord, but there was no living in those aptitudes save perhaps becoming a governess, and that always seemed such a sad and lonely existence. She felt like a rat caught in a cage, tearing desperately and fruitlessly at the wire mesh walls, refusing to accept the inevitable.

Finding no solution, she decided to put the problem to the back of her mind and concentrate on more appealing matters.

For a start, she needed to address her concerns about the sketch for Henri. At Charlotte’s showroom she had seen it with new eyes, and had become uncomfortably aware of its shortcomings. How poor it was, how amateur, how sloppily observed and hastily executed. She could instantly note its artistic flaws, the lack of symmetry, the unrealistic shapes of the leaves, the way that the stems were the same width as they curved from the bottom to the top of the page, not narrowing as they would in nature. How much better it could have been had she applied the lessons Mr Ehret had since taught her.

Before leaving Miss Charlotte’s shop, she had asked Henri whether he would allow her to do further work on it, to make the floral figures even more naturalistic, perhaps to add some colour wash. He had protested that it was perfectly lovely as it was but had then concurred, so long as she did not change it too much. She promised to supply a new version to him within the week.

The following day, after breakfast, she retired to her room and sat at the table by the window, attempting to recreate the sketch. With each try, her confidence in its artistry diminished. What on earth is wrong with me? she berated herself, scrunching another wasted sheet of paper into a ball and hurling it at the wall. I have no talent, no inspiration, no ability at all. What a mess. It’s hopeless.

She flung herself onto the unyielding mattress and closed her eyes. A sequence of images flickered on the inside of her eyelids: of the lines and curves flowing from Mr Ehret’s pencil, of the raindrops gleaming, and of shades of red and orange spilling over the autumn leaves. She was in the Hinchliffes’ garden again with Mr Ehret’s voice in her ear exhorting her to ‘look, look and look again’.

The bells of Christ Church, pealing midday, woke her from the reverie. She realised what she had been doing wrong, and what she now needed to do.

After lunch, she asked Betty to accompany her to the market. There, she returned to the wild flower stall – relieved to discover that the ruddy-faced woman had been replaced by a man – and spent nearly two shillings on bunches of sea lavender, yellow tree lupin, sea holly and heathers of different hues. Returning home, she carried up to her room a large pitcher of water, and arranged the flowers into a display that lifted her heart, calling to mind the late summer days in her village on the edge of the sea.

By the end of the following day, despite frequent interruptions from Lizzie, she had recreated her original sketch with its sinuous curved trellis of bindweed stems, but with much more detail in the botanical depictions: the veining on leaves, the shadows on a curled petal, flowers in bud, flowers in full glorious display, and flowers creased and drooping as they faded, and raindrops nestling in the apex of a stalk. Even a small black beetle which fell out of the wild flower arrangement onto her table made an appearance in the finished drawing.

Now she applied watercolour, using her old box of paints brought from Suffolk and, when this had dried, added chalk shading and retraced some of the lines with ink for added emphasis.

She propped the finished painting onto the dresser and sat back on the bed to study it from a better distance. It is good, she thought to herself, much improved, the colour and shading producing greater depth and realism. Finally satisfied with what she had produced, she rolled it into a cylinder, wrapping another sheet around it for protection, and attached a label with Henri’s name and address. Now she just had to find a way of getting it delivered without prompting awkward questions.

The day of the Inns of Court ball was looming and Anna had begun to fret about her lack of accomplishment in dancing. In the family library she had discovered a book entitled The Art of Dancing, and had done her best to follow the complicated floor diagrams that demonstrated through a series of curved lines and arrows where one’s feet should go. But without the music she found it impossible to gain any sense of the timing or rhythm, or, indeed, what her arms and hands should be doing. Each time she tried, the task appeared more hopeless. Although she could not bring herself to admit her failings, it seemed they had already been detected.

‘We must make sure that you are fully prepared for the ball, dearest Niece,’ Aunt Sarah declared at supper that evening. ‘Are you familiar with the French style of dance, my dear?’

‘Then I shall engage a dancing master forthwith. Mrs Hinchliffe recommended an excellent fellow who taught Susannah most successfully. I shall request his services, with a harpsichord accompanist, for tomorrow and Friday morning.’

‘You said I could take lessons also,’ Lizzie whined. ‘It will not be long before I am invited to a dance, and surely I too must be prepared.’

‘You may watch and learn, Lizzie,’ her mother said firmly. ‘When the time comes we shall arrange lessons especially for you. But for now the priority is to ensure that Anna is presented at her very best, is it not, Mr Sadler?’

‘Monsieur le Montagne’ managed to maintain the French accent for most of the lesson, only slipping into his native cockney when Anna’s ineptitude led him to extremes of frustration. He was not an attractive man, white-wigged and over-rouged – ‘a proper macaroni’, Lizzie observed – in an overtight silk jacket and breeches with only slightly stained white stockings. But he was perfectly polite and pleasant in demeanour, and thoroughly professional in his approach.

‘In zee minuet we are making a beeootiful painting across the floor with our feet, Miss Butterfield, like zis,’ he said, demonstrating. They had pushed back the chairs and rolled up the rug in the drawing room, exposing cracked and unsecured floorboards, which made ‘painting with zee feet’ a tricky affair.

‘We have our feet turned out slightly, like zis, which is noble. Never turned in, like zis, which is grotesque.’ He frowned like a gargoyle. ‘First we are on our tiptoes and then we bend, you see,’ he said, dipping and rising for all the world like the drakes on the village pond at mating time, Anna thought, struggling to suppress a fit of laughter.

‘We bend,’ he repeated, ‘and we create zee beautiful serpentine shape, like a river, with our feet, our hands and our . . . erm . . .’ He ran his hands through the air as if around the curves of an imaginary woman. ‘Comme ça.’

‘It is like Hogarth. He says the serpentine curve is the essence of beauty.’

M. le Montagne smiled benignly at his pupil. ‘Indeed, Miss Butterfield. How clever of you. Mr Hogarth also declares zat zee minuet is zee perfection of all dancing. Now, let us try again. Remember, no hurrying, no looking at your feet. Gentle fingers, elegant arms, held in opposition to zee direction of your feet. Zat is correct. Now, one, two and three . . . sink, rise, bend.’

Over and over again she tried and failed to meet his exacting requirements but slowly, as the three hours passed, she gained confidence and made fewer mistakes. Aunt Sarah and Lizzie applauded encouragingly from the sidelines. ‘You’ve nearly got it, Anna. By tomorrow it will be perfect,’ her cousin cried.

‘At least I am not important enough for anyone to take notice of me. They will all be watching the other dancers,’ Anna said, sipping from the glass of water her aunt had thoughtfully provided.

‘Oh no,’ M. le Montagne piped up. ‘Each couple must dance separately, that is the point of the minuet.’

‘You mean everyone at the ball will be watching me?’ Her elation turned to terror.

‘Yes, I am afraid so,’ he said. ‘I regret that our time is up for today but tomorrow we shall perfect your dance and I promise you will be the belle of the ball. Au revoir, madame, mesdemoiselles,’ he said, bowing deeply to each of the ladies in turn. ‘À demain.’

Anna was exhausted from the morning’s exertions, but there was to be no rest. The afternoon was fully consumed with considerations of dress and other details: which hairstyle, which shoes, which stockings, which rouge, which blacking for her eyebrows, which parfum, which fan – the painted silk or the lace? Letters were composed to Miss Charlotte and a visit arranged for the following morning to collect various other items that Aunt Sarah deemed vital: a silk scarf in the same yellow damask as the dress, lace lappets for her hair with yellow ribbons, and a fan to match.

‘Refrain from placing your fingers to its tip,’ Aunt Sarah said, demonstrating. ‘It will be taken as an invitation that you wish to talk to the person you are looking at. And never, ever, in any circumstances, close it by drawing it through your hand like this.’

Anna laughed. ‘I doubt many men trouble themselves to learn the language of the fan.’

‘That’s as may be,’ her aunt replied, pursing her lips. ‘But the other ladies will, and word will spread soon enough.’

Lizzie took up another fan and put it to her lips. ‘What does this mean, Mama?’

Aunt Sarah coloured and snatched the fan away. ‘Do not let me ever see you doing that again, Lizzie.’

‘Do you not want Charlie to kiss you? If you are going to marry someone, surely that is what you most desire?’

Later, in her room, she pondered her reaction. Why did she not thrill at the thought of Charlie kissing her? Was that not what a young woman most wanted, when romance blossomed? He was a nice enough man of good means, who talked with her most respectfully. But when she thought of him, she saw those long limbs, bony cheeks and the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Would she ever, even in time, find him attractive enough to want to kiss him – or take part in those other things her mother had once darkly hinted at but about which she had very little notion?

Perhaps I should be grateful that anyone is taking an interest in me, she sighed, catching a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Who am I to be so choosy?

By Friday lunchtime, after a further three hours of intensive tuition, she felt a good deal more confident of her dancing steps and was even beginning to look forward to the ball. But first there was the trip to Miss Charlotte to collect the finishing touches for her costume.

‘It is best that I go in person, for I may need to make some choices, or perhaps wait for adjustments,’ she said. ‘It is only a few streets away and I can perfectly easily find my way there and back again, just as I did last time.’ To her surprise, Aunt Sarah agreed.

She hoped Miss Charlotte might invite her for tea again, with perhaps the pleasant diversion of entertaining conversation. It was almost at the last moment that she realised that this visit offered the perfect opportunity: she would ask Miss Charlotte if she would be kind enough to deliver her new painting to Henri.

As she approached the shop in Draper’s Lane Anna could see that Charlotte had customers. She stalled, crossing the road to the other side where she could wait less conspicuously.

Through the bow window she could see a woman holding the hand of a small pale-faced boy wearing the beautiful plum-coloured damask coat she’d seen in the shop several weeks before. Miss Charlotte embraced the young woman briefly and then kneeled so that her face was level with the boy’s, put her hands to his cheeks and kissed him on the forehead. It was a scene of charming but unexpected intimacy.

Shortly afterwards the door opened and the pair emerged. Miss Charlotte lingered on the step, waving goodbye. After ten yards or so, the boy turned his head, lifting his hand in a reciprocal gesture. Then something unexpected happened: pulling away from the woman’s grip, and oblivious to her calls, he began to run at some pace back to the shop. He held out his arms and Charlotte, who had now descended the steps, crouched and opened hers so that he fell straight into her embrace.

The other woman returned to his side and tried to prise him away, but he clung to Miss Charlotte like a limpet, nuzzling his face into her neck as she appeared to whisper words of comfort. After several long moments she stood up, forcing him to release his hold, and the young woman took his hand once more. Reluctantly, he was led away and this time Miss Charlotte went immediately inside and closed the door.

It was such a touching scene that Anna lingered several minutes further before crossing the road to knock at the door of the shop. She was glad she had done so because the seamstress took some time to answer and, when she did, her eyes were reddened and her cheeks raw-looking. She recovered herself immediately: ‘Oh, it’s you, Anna,’ she said, resuming her usual welcoming smile. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

‘I have come for some ribbons and lappets for the ball I am attending on Saturday.’

‘I could not help seeing you saying goodbye to that little boy. He looked so charming in that beautiful damask coat you made for him.’

Miss Charlotte flushed. ‘He is my nephew. The coat was for his seventh birthday.’

‘Indeed . . .’ Her words tailed off and the smile faded. ‘Now, about those lappets you wanted . . .’

When they had completed their business and were taking tea, Anna took out the parcel and explained her request.

‘I am quite happy to deliver it for you,’ Miss Charlotte said. ‘But why do you not take it to him yourself? Unless my memory deceives me, when you were here last week Henri invited you to visit so that you might better understand how the design would work on the loom.’

‘Indeed, that would be my dearest wish,’ Anna said. ‘But I have not told my aunt and uncle about the design and I feel sure they would consider it unseemly for me to visit the home of a French weaver.’

Miss Charlotte nodded sympathetically. ‘I can certainly deliver it for you on Tuesday afternoon when it is early closing, if that is soon enough?’

It was arranged that Anna would take a carriage to the Hinchliffes’ after lunch on Saturday and would dress there, along with Susannah, and assisted by their maid.

In the carriage Anna was assailed by a fit of nerves, wishing herself far away and not having to face the trial of her social and dancing skills among eminent and wealthy strangers. But Mrs Hinchliffe – ‘you must call me Augusta, my dear’ – welcomed her like a long-lost daughter.

‘We are just so delighted that you are able to join us,’ she warbled. ‘I am sure we are to enjoy the most delightful evening. Charles tells us that the ball attracts most interesting and distinguished guests.’

‘Dearest Anna, I am almost beside myself with excitement,’ Susannah whispered. ‘I can barely keep still. What colour is your dress?’

‘It is a pale yellow damask robe à la française, so the costumière called it. It has a sackback, which makes me feel most elegant.’

‘How wonderfully à la mode. I cannot wait to see it,’ Susannah said. ‘Mine is eggshell blue, and I have the prettiest dancing shoes you can ever imagine.’

‘I am sure you will be the belles of the ball,’ said Mrs Hinchliffe. ‘It will be our delight to escort you both.’

After tea, they both retired to Susannah’s chamber, where her maid – her own personal maid, what an indulgence, Anna thought to herself – was deputed to help them dress. Anna hoped this might be a moment to engage Susannah in conversation; to see what they might have in common. After all, she was the only young woman of her own age to whom she had yet been introduced.

‘What do you like to read, Susannah?’ she asked, between gasps as the maid tugged at her stays, trying to force her waistline into the same impossibly tiny circumference as her young mistress’s.

‘This and that,’ Susannah replied, distracted by a lace cuff which would not sit correctly. ‘These have not been starched properly, Hannah.’

‘I wondered if you like to read novels, you know, romances like Pamela, or Clarissa. Or what about Jonathan Swift – I love his satires.’

‘Or perhaps you like poetry? Thomas Gray? I do so love his “Elegy in a Country Churchyard”.’

‘How does it go?’ Susannah regarded herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that.

Anna thought for a moment, then began: ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, the ploughman homeward plods his weary way and leaves the world to darkness and to me.’

‘Sounds too gloomy for me.’ Susannah held out her arms so that Hannah could fit the new cuffs then stepped forward to the dresser, causing her maid to run with her, and picked up a slim volume. ‘Mama gave me this,’ she said.

On the front was an illustration of two beautiful young women. Each part of their anatomy, the height of their hair, the size of their eyes, the extent of their décolletages and the slimness of their waistlines seemed overly exaggerated, unlike any girl Anna had ever encountered. ‘The Lady’s Book of Manners,’ she said, turning to an inside page and reading out loud.

‘No lady should drink wine at dinner. Even if her head is strong enough to bear it, she will find her cheeks, soon after the indulgence, flushed, hot, and uncomfortable. Alas, I surely have no manners. My uncle serves claret each evening, and I drink it!’

She read again: ‘No young lady should go to a ball, without the protection of a married lady, or an elderly gentleman.’

Susannah laughed. ‘Thank heavens we have Mother and Father with us tonight. She’s married and he’s elderly.’

For a while their conversation was lively enough but it soon dwindled, and Anna found herself struggling to find topics of mutual interest with which to fill the time. At last they were called. The carriage was waiting.

Arriving at the Inns of Court, their cloaks were taken by a red- and gold-liveried footman, who ushered them into the grandest anteroom Anna had ever seen, with bright Persian carpets, deep-buttoned leather benches along both sides and, at either end, walls covered with portraits of pompous-looking men. Charles was there to greet them.

‘Miss Butterfield, it is my greatest pleasure that you are able to join us.’ He bowed and took her hand to his lips, whispering, ‘You are looking very fine this evening.’

She blushed, in spite of herself. She had to admit he made an impressive figure, a full head taller than her and bewigged, splendidly attired in a brilliant silk brocade coat cut away in the latest fashion with white lace ruffles at neck and wrists. Perhaps it was the mirrored hall, or the light of so many candelabra, but she thought him a great deal more handsome than she remembered.

Accepting his offer of a glass of claret, she drank it down eagerly, hoping the alcohol would soothe her nerves. To blazes with The Lady’s Book of Manners, she said to herself. They chatted for a while, although their conversation was constantly interrupted by men greeting Charles in loud, booming voices, slapping him on the back and calling him ‘my boy’. He introduced her to each one, but after the initial politenesses, she was mostly ignored.

It was with some relief that she heard the orchestra tuning up, and Charles invited her to dance. The ballroom seemed to Anna at least the size of their village cricket pitch, and the ceiling the height of a church, supported by marble columns and lit by a dozen glittering chandeliers.

Before she had a moment to think, they were already taking their places and it became obvious that the very first dance was indeed a minuet. Happily, four other couples took the central floor before them, all apparently fluent in the art of the dance, allowing her time to revise the movements before it was their turn.

She remembered to keep her feet turned out, not to look down at them and, most of the time, at which moments to dance on her toes or dip her knees. When it came to the all-important diagonal pass across the centre of the floor, the climax of the dance, Charles held out his arm well in advance to indicate that this was the moment when their wrists were to touch at the turn.

As they finished, she curtseyed as elegantly as she knew how, he bowed and, as he offered his arm to lead her from the floor, the other dancers and observers clapped appreciatively. ‘A triumph, Miss Butterfield,’ he whispered. ‘You are a most accomplished dancer.’

The rest of the evening flew by as she danced twice again with Charles, once with Mr Ehret and once with Mr Hinchliffe. Susannah waved gaily each time they passed on the floor, apparently with a new partner each time. At last, as her feet were starting to ache, she heard the announcement of the final minuet, and it was Charles who claimed her.

Before she knew it, they were all in a carriage on their way home, Susannah chattering gaily with her mother about all the marvellously handsome young men she had danced with, and Mr Hinchliffe and Charles exchanging information about the important people they had observed, or conversed with, during the evening, and the business connections they had made.

It seemed the men were far more concerned about meeting potential customers of high social standing and plentiful means than they were with enjoying themselves, and their talk left Anna feeling a little deflated. She knew that such events were, in essence, marriage markets, but she had not realised how much they could also be commercial marketplaces.

As she prepared to leave the following morning after breakfast, Charles pulled her to one side and whispered, ‘I have so enjoyed your company, Anna. May I be so bold as to invite myself to Spital Square again next week?’

On Tuesday morning Anna recalled that Miss Charlotte had promised to deliver her new sketch to Henri that afternoon. She tried to imagine herself into the scene but failed: she had no idea what the interior of the house or the weaving loft would be like. What would he think of the new painting? she wondered. Would he be able to incorporate her new naturalistic elements into the woven design? How would he translate her many shades of colour into silk? She so longed to be there herself, to take part in their discussions, to observe his reactions and, she had to admit it, to hear his voice and see his smile.

As the morning drew on, she became more and more downcast. It wasn’t fair that Miss Charlotte could be free to visit whom she wanted and when she wanted, while she, Anna, was unable to. It is like being imprisoned, she thought to herself, within invisible walls of social propriety.

She gazed out of her window across the rooftops, recalling the freedoms of her former life. She imagined herself running, with little Jane, across the beach and splashing in the surf at the edge of the sea, and found herself close to tears.

Joseph and William were missing at lunchtime, and Aunt Sarah announced that she, Anna and Lizzie had received an invitation to take tea with some friends in Hackney. ‘It is a fair drive, but it will do you good to get out,’ she said to Anna. ‘You are looking a little peaky, my dear.’

The idea came to her then, as sudden and surprising as a thunderclap. ‘I am so sorry, dear Aunt,’ she said, touching her temple. ‘I do have a terrible headache. Do you mind if I do not accompany you on this occasion? I think it would be better if I rested.’

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