The Silk Weaver

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; and if the room is warm, and the dinner a long one, she will probably pay the penalty of her folly, by having a headache all the evening.

– The Lady’s Book of Manners

The letter arrived with the rest of the family’s mail, brought by Betty to the breakfast table. As she recognised the writing Anna felt a knot of excitement growing in her chest, almost stopping her breath.

‘Thank you, Aunt, but I will open it later. I do not wish to disturb my delicious breakfast.’

Her appetite had vanished, and she struggled to eat the slice of meat pie already on her plate. At last the meal was over and she ran to her room with Lizzie hot on her heels.

‘Later, Cousin,’ Anna said, turning her away. ‘You must allow me my privacy.’

She tore open the letter, and at first she could not understand what it said. We must not meet again. As the meaning became clear, a wave of nausea coursed through her body.

‘No!’ she gasped, throwing her face into the bolster to muffle her sobs. Why would he write such a thing? There must have been a terrible misunderstanding.

After a while she sat up and read the few lines over and over again, barely able to believe what she was seeing. What could she possibly have done to deserve such a final, terrible rejection? In her mind, she interrogated every moment that she could remember of their few meetings: at the church, at Miss Charlotte’s and then at Wood Street.

She recalled the moment at the bottom of the weaving loft ladder and his words: Please let us find a way. Surely she cannot have imagined the powerful feelings she had believed to be so utterly mutual at that moment? Her mind veered wildly, visualising possible scenarios. Had Aunt Sarah forced Charlotte into admitting who they had visited that afternoon? Had she then gone to see Henri to warn him off? No, she felt sure that Miss Charlotte would never betray her like that. And Aunt Sarah deigning to visit a French weaver at his house? Very unlikely.

She went to the window and peered down into the square, to the spot where she had encountered Henri and Guy sitting on the wall beneath the trees; where she had once seen his figure approaching the house, delivering his first letter. How long ago it seemed.

A few flakes of early snow were falling from a leaden sky and people were scurrying about their business with cloaks and shawls wrapped tightly around heads and shoulders. She turned and picked up the letter again, reading its final phrase: I know that we must not meet again.

‘Must not,’ she spoke out loud. Now, she understood: It is not what he wants, nor I. He has been told, perhaps by M. Lavalle, that our friendship is unwise, or inappropriate. Just as she knew, deep in her own heart, the social barriers were just too high to breach. It was a stupid fantasy, she said to herself. And he is just being practical. Perhaps it is for the best.

But none of this sensible reasoning could ease the desolation in her heart. Several times she heard Lizzie’s feet on the stair and sent her away, claiming a headache. At lunchtime, Betty arrived with a bowl of broth and some bread, which was welcome. Worn out with weeping, Anna slept for most of the afternoon, and took supper in her room. When Betty came to take away the dishes, she brought a message from Aunt Sarah.

Dearest Niece, she wrote. I hope you are feeling better? You will not have forgotten, I am sure, that you are bidden to Ludgate Hill tomorrow evening, for dinner?

She had forgotten, and the reminder was unwelcome. Seeing Charlie again was the very last thing on earth she wanted. But she could not maintain the pretence of illness for another full day; she would have to pull herself together, paste on a smile, and face the world once more.

Halfway through dinner the following evening Anna discovered, rather to her surprise, that she was quite enjoying herself. There were others at the table – a friend of Susannah’s with her parents, and another mercer and his wife. She’d accepted a glass of claret and the conversation had been lively. Charlie asked how her art was going, and she’d told him about meeting Mr Gainsborough.

‘Charming fellow, isn’t he?’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘Met him in Bath when he came to look at Pa. What a genius with faces.’

‘And landscapes,’ Anna added, after which they had a discussion about which was the more demanding for an artist, portraiture or nature, in which several other guests took part. It was the liveliest and most interesting social interaction she’d enjoyed so far in the city.

After dinner, the ladies withdrew and gossiped about fashion and the latest romances of their friends, which bored her into silence, but the gentlemen soon arrived and Susannah was encouraged to play the harpsichord.

‘She is very talented, your sister,’ she whispered to Charles, seated beside her.

‘Indeed. My mother was a fine singer, I’m told, but alas this musical inheritance seems to have passed me by.’

‘I am sure you have other talents,’ she replied, turning back to the music. A few moments later she felt his hand touch hers, resting on the arm of the chair. His long fingers took her own, and squeezed them gently. She felt her face flushing – perhaps The Lady’s Book of Manners was correct about taking too much wine at dinner, she thought to herself – and wondered what to do next.

Susannah stopped playing, and Charlie removed his hand to applaud. But clearly he seemed to have recovered his nerve and she feared what might follow were they to find themselves alone. But she still had no idea how to respond.

The moment arrived: the other guests went to take their leave, and the rest of the family followed into the hallway to bid them farewell. She and Charles were left in the drawing room, standing together at the fireplace.

‘Dearest Anna,’ he began, taking her hand and gripping it firmly in his own rather sweaty palm. ‘You probably know what my feelings are towards you?’

‘And you probably understood my intention when I came to tea at Spital Square last week? I regret that I was much daunted by the consequence of the moment, but now I am determined.’ He took a deep breath and blurted, in a rush, ‘Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

There it was, the question she’d been dreading. If she refused him, the Hinchliffes would be insulted and her aunt and uncle infuriated. She looked up at the face that had now become so familiar. This time, his eyes were warm, lit by a fond smile, the long nose and Adam’s apple far less obtrusive. The atmosphere of this room, so comfortably furnished and lit with the warm glow of firelight, was seductive. She had enjoyed his company this evening. Perhaps, given time, they could develop a comfortable friendship, even love of a kind.

She took a deep breath and began her reply, not even knowing what it would be. ‘Dearest Charles,’ she said. ‘It is I who is honoured. But you know, do you not, that I am a penniless vicar’s daughter? I could bring no wealth or property to this union.’

‘I am fully apprised of your situation, but it makes no difference to my feelings for you.’ He took her hand to his lips, and held it there.

‘You will know, then, that my father has lately been widowed,’ she said. ‘And, as he is so far away, you will have to write to him.’

‘I think my father should be the one to agree. I am quite certain he would be most delighted to give his permission. But could you give me leave to tell him myself first? I shall be going home for Christmas. Would you mind terribly if we waited until my return before announcing the happy news?’

She found herself in his arms, his head bent so that his cheek touched hers, his breath on her neck. It was not an unpleasant feeling, comforting in a way.

‘My dearest girl, you have made me the happiest man in the world,’ he whispered. ‘Of course we can wait for your father. Until then, it will be our little secret.’

The approaching Mercers’ Company dinner brought a palpable air of tension to the Sadler household. As well as being the annual event at which the positions of high office were decided, it was also an opportunity for Company members to display their most sumptuous fabrics – in the garments worn by themselves and their wives. Sarah had commissioned a new dressmaker for her gown, but each time she returned from one of her fitting sessions she appeared more and more dissatisfied.

‘Why did you not use Miss Charlotte, as usual?’ Lizzie asked innocently. What she didn’t know was that Anna had overheard her aunt saying that she wouldn’t use her again because she was ‘unreliable’, and ever since had felt a bitter shame for having inadvertently caused her friend to lose a valued customer.

‘I almost wish I had indeed done so, my dear,’ Aunt Sarah grumbled. ‘This new one doesn’t seem to have the skills or the patience. I am starting to wonder whether my gown will ever be ready in time.’

At last the great day dawned, and Aunt Sarah spent most of the afternoon having her nails manicured, her high wig dressed and lavish make-up applied. At last the preparation was finished and the family gathered to admire. The new outfit – in shades of turquoise blue – was certainly eye-catching, Anna thought, if a little unsubtle. Joseph appeared in a brightly patterned brocade waistcoat and long coat in the latest style, looking tightly buttoned and uncomfortable.

‘I do hope Pa gets voted in as Upper Bailiff,’ William muttered, after they had departed. ‘He’ll be like a bear with a sore head if they choose someone else.’

‘These things are never certain till they’re signed and sealed,’ he replied mysteriously.

Later, after Lizzie had excused herself from the table, Anna found herself alone with him. ‘What did you mean about things not being certain for Uncle?’ she asked.

‘There is always so much jockeying for position in these organisations,’ he said. ‘You have to play the game, and I am not sure whether Pa has studied the rule book sufficiently.’

‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed then.’ They had barely exchanged ten words since the night they had met in the office, but this little conversation emboldened her. ‘How are things with you, William?’

‘Things?’ he said, pouring himself another glass of claret and offering her one. She gladly accepted.

‘I mean, are you now free of those threats you spoke of? I was worried for you.’

‘Thank you for your concern, Coz,’ he said. ‘Let me assure you that all is well.’

‘Have you stopped . . . I mean, have you mended your ways? And have you paid back the money you stole from the business yet?’

He took a large gulp from his glass and stared into it as if studying its colour before looking up and adding in a more conciliatory tone, ‘I do appreciate your continued silence, of course.’

She was about to laugh but then remembered that Charles was his friend, so she smothered it.

‘It’ll be a good match, you know. He likes the ponies a little too much and he’s had a bit of trouble with unpaid debts recently, but who am I to judge? Still, he’s extremely well connected with the great and good, and I’m sure he will become very wealthy, in time. What about you?’

‘I heard a little rumour that he’s going to propose. Will you accept him?’

The directness of the question caught her off guard. ‘He is certainly very charming and I thank you for your advice.’

William finished his wine, stood up and bowed. ‘Always at your service, madam.’

Later she woke to hear the carriage arrive, followed by doors banging and raised voices in the room below, but fell asleep again and thought nothing more of it. Her aunt and uncle were safely home, at least.

Next morning, Betty told them that Joseph and William had already taken breakfast and were now in a meeting, not to be disturbed. Aunt Sarah was still in bed, feeling poorly.

Two hours later, Anna encountered Betty preparing warmed milk and biscuits for her aunt. ‘Let me take them up,’ she said. ‘I will try to discover what ails her.’

Her knock was met with a muffled moan and, when she entered the chamber, the shutters were still closed and the room fuggy with overnight air. In the gloom, the sight that beheld her was pitiful. Aunt Sarah’s face, amid the huddle of bedclothes, was distorted with misery, her cheeks raw and her eyes reddened from weeping.

Anna put down the tray and sat beside the bed. ‘Whatever has befallen you? Are you not well?’

The inquiry precipitated a fit of racking sobs. She took Sarah’s hand and waited. After nursing her mother through many ailments and her final illness, she understood that simply by being there, as an undemanding presence, could provide comfort.

At last the sobs abated and Sarah fell back onto the pillow, exhausted. She accepted Anna’s offer of warm milk and took a few sips.

‘I do not understand your meaning, Aunt. Is it something that happened last evening?’

‘It is finished,’ she said. ‘Your uncle is not to be Upper Bailiff. He is utterly disgraced.’

‘Disgraced? For what?’ Anna’s mind slipped back to the conversation about French silk. Surely it could not be that, after all these weeks?

The story emerged slowly, between Aunt Sarah’s outbursts of desperate weeping and moments of allowing herself to be comforted. It seemed that on entering the Mercers’ Hall Joseph had been handed a note. He put it into his pocket, unread, assuming that it was simply the confirmation that, after the dinner, he would be called to take his vows as Upper Bailiff. The dinner proceeded as expected but, when the time came, an entirely different name was called out; another rose to take the applause and receive the much-anticipated honours. All eyes were on Joseph and Sarah, of course, who were becoming more and more embarrassed and entirely unable to understand what was going on.

‘I wished the floor would open up and swallow us whole,’ Sarah said. ‘Your poor dear uncle was so astonished and confused, he could not think what to do.’

Eventually, he stirred himself and strode out of the hall, followed by Sarah. ‘Such a long, long walk, my dear, past all those sneering faces. My poor dear man died the death of a thousand insults last night. I fear for his sanity, I really do.’

‘It said . . .’ She broke down again, unable to continue, waving a hand towards the dressing table. The sheet of notepaper – once crumpled and now smoothed out – was headed with the Mercers’ Company crest and signed by the outgoing Upper Bailiff. Anna prised open the shutter so that she could read:

Dear Mr Sadler,

In light of recently received reports that your company has once again been illegally importing French silks, presumably to evade paying the proper import tax, we regret to inform you that your bid to become Upper Bailiff is hereby revoked and, furthermore, that you will no longer be a member of the Administration Committee.

It is also my sorry duty to inform you that the tax authorities have been alerted and will no doubt be in contact forthwith.

If you avoid criminal charges on this matter, you may remain as a member of the Company but only on your solemn oath that you will henceforth abide strictly by the law and agree never again to bring the Company into disrepute.

The letter was shocking in its directness. If this was the payback for William’s duplicity, for which her uncle had already taken the blame, why had it taken them so long to punish him? And why do it this way, humiliating him so publicly?

‘Is this true?’ Anna asked, feigning innocence. ‘This accusation about the French silks?’

Her aunt, who was by now sitting up and nibbling on a biscuit, nodded dolefully. ‘He says there was a bookkeeping error a few weeks ago, which unfortunately led to the tax remaining unaccounted for. It was a terrible shock at the time, but he went over the whole thing with the Administration Committee and they seemed to accept his apology. He cannot understand what this latest complaint is about.’

The sour smell of suspicion hung in the air. Everything was so complex, so murky. What if, despite his reassurance to her last night, William was still gambling? And what if, in his desperation, he had continued to cook the books, claiming to have paid the tax but actually creaming off the money to pay his gambling debts? If that was the case, it was little wonder that Joseph had been so utterly surprised by last night’s debacle.

‘Joseph and William are at this very moment trying to ascertain what could have possibly gone wrong, and after that they will have to contact the Company and the tax authorities to try to make amends.’

‘That is what terrifies me most, my dear. But Mr Sadler reassures me that if the money is paid in full, he will be able to avert such a threat.’

Sarah sighed. ‘These things are not for us women to know. Our lot is to wait and accept our fate.’ She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, despite the fug in the room. ‘You must leave me now, and send Betty up, so that I may ready myself to face the world. But please –’ she took Anna’s hand and pressed it urgently ‘– give me your word that you will not breathe a word of this to Lizzie. She adores her father and it would upset her so to learn that he is facing this trouble.’

After the shock of his disgrace at the Mercers’ dinner Joseph seemed to disappear from view, locking himself in the office to huddle over his desk both day and night, occasionally appearing in his best wig and waistcoat and bustling out, to return only late in the evening after everyone else was abed.

Sarah spent long hours in her chamber, rising pasty-faced in her nightgown for meals, and then pecking at her plate with the appetite of a sparrow. Christmas was almost upon them, but no puddings were being stirred, no goose hanging in the larder. A dark cloud had descended on the household and it seemed nothing could lift its oppressive gloom.

A few days after the debacle, a letter arrived at breakfast. Anna recognised the hand, but waited until she was alone in the dining room before opening it.

Dear Miss Butterfield, it read,

I regret to inform you that due to unforeseen circumstances it will not be possible to honour our agreement. I would be grateful if, to avoid unnecessary embarrassment, you would not make any future contact.

With best regards,

Charles Hinchliffe

She wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, the language so stuffily formal. And then she became furious. Just who did Charles Hinchliffe think he was, so high and mighty, so viciously dismissive? He was no saint either, if William was to be believed, with his gambling habit and casual attitude towards his studies, both of which were no doubt being funded by his wealthy father.

To be written off so heedlessly, not just by him but apparently by the whole family, was not only hurtful but depressingly reflective of the shallowness of London society, where one is only of worth when one is useful to someone else. The letter brought home the enormity of her uncle’s disgrace, the way it had cast a shadow over the whole family.

‘Did I leave my . . . ?’ he started, before noticing the letter in her hand. ‘Is it bad news?’

‘It’s from Charles. It seems his interest in me has suddenly waned. I cannot imagine why,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘The bastard.’ William sat down beside her. ‘May I see?’ He took the letter and scanned it quickly. ‘Christ,’ he said, thumping the table until the silverware clattered. ‘I didn’t think they’d throw us off like this, so completely. They’ve been friends of the family for years. And you, practically engaged . . . how dare he impugn your honour like this?’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Oh God! What have I done?’

‘Had I owned up, we would have been paying off the customs duty week by week as Father promised the Company in the first place, and they wouldn’t now be demanding such a large whack, not to mention the fine.’

The word felt like a slap. Anna knew what it meant, of course, but could hardly imagine it applying to Sadler & Son. ‘What would happen then?’

‘Unless we can pay off the debts by the start of January we’ll have to sell the business.’

He sighed. ‘Where do other people live? We’d have to rent, I suppose. Get other jobs to pay for it.’

‘Selling the rest of the French silks to an out-of-town mercer. But someone recognised them and traced them back to us. It only made matters worse – more duties to pay and another fine. The only silk we have left is what we’ve had on the stocks for months, years even, before everyone went into mourning for the old king. No one wants it. Fashion is so bloody fickle.’ He sighed again. ‘It’s such bad timing. Pa was about to bid for a commission to supply silk for the trousseau for the new queen.’

‘No one has. It’s just speculation. They won’t let young George stay unmarried for long, mark my words. He has to have a male heir, remember. All the mercers in the city are poised to make their fortune when the wedding’s announced.’

‘There’s a rumour about a young German princess. But it doesn’t really matter, just so long as we are ready to offer something sumptuous and gloriously fashionable. Which, of course, we won’t be now.’

They fell into silence. He picked up Charles’s letter and studied its few words again. ‘I’ve made such a mess of everything. And you got caught up in it – your betrothal and everything.’

‘Please do not trouble yourself about that, Cousin. I know he’s your friend, but to be honest, I do not love him. And his views are so different from mine.’

‘But he’s such a good match. What will you do instead? Or do you have another beau in mind?’

‘Please do not worry about me. I’ll just go home and live a quiet life in the country.’

Having said it, she realised that her glib remark was the truth: she was desperate to get back to Suffolk, to see her father, and little Jane. Those familiar paths through the marshes, the sound of the sea. ‘I didn’t know you read Shakespeare.’

It was his turn to laugh. ‘I’ll miss your tart little comments, Coz. I’ve found them quite refreshing. A girl of your intelligence won’t be happy in the country for long. And what about those plans to learn about silk design?’

‘Oh, I dare say I will find someone to teach me,’ she said, failing to convince herself. ‘There’s a thriving silk trade in Norwich, I’m told.’

A girl of your intelligence won’t be happy in the country for long. Anna pondered William’s words with a growing sense of despondency, recalling how bored she had sometimes felt in the village, how energised by the prospect of leaving. What if he was right? And yet she had found little contentment or pleasure here in the city.

17