20

Bays: a coarse, open wool fabric with a long nap; very hard-wearing, often used for workwear or outerwear.

I had not seen Anna since our visit to Monsieur Girardieu several weeks previously, and there was so much to tell.

The family were still at the table finishing their supper, but I was welcomed in and invited to join them for a bowl of flummery. ‘It’s cook’s new recipe,’ Anna said. ‘Do try.’

I tucked in, savouring the delicious flavourings of cinnamon and nutmeg. Monsieur Lavalle and Henri were in full flow, discussing the most recent controversy among members of the Worshipful Company of Weavers while the two apprentices listened silently. Anna seemed unusually quiet as she nursed little Jean on her knee, feeding him oatmeal from her own plate. I noticed that despite her enthusiasm for the new recipe she ate barely a scrap of it for herself.

When she told the little lad it was time for bed he lurched from her lap and toddled towards me, demanding to be picked up. Always glad of the opportunity to cuddle the boy, I gathered him into my arms. ‘Tell you what, Jayjay. Would you like me to tell you a story?’

‘Are you sure, Charlotte? He’s such a heavy lump these days I struggle to carry him up the stairs.’ Anna patted the now obvious bulge of her belly.

‘There is nothing I’d like more, and I know your routine well enough.’ I stood, resting him on my hip. ‘Kiss Mama, Papa and Grandpapa goodnight.’ Upstairs, I washed the little boy’s face and hands with a sponge. The water was cold but he did not complain. I tied him into his soft cambric nightgown and gave him a drink from the cup of milk Anna had given us before starting on the story.

There is nothing more comforting than holding a sleepy child on your lap, breathing in the sweet, sugared-almond smell of their hair, feeling the weight and warmth of their little bodies. The bundle of energy that usually wriggled free now rested, relaxed and heavy in my arms, as I recounted the tale of how Tom Thumb arrived at King Arthur’s court and how, as a reward for killing the ogres, Arthur granted Tom the hand of a princess. The idea of a tiny man seems greatly to appeal to children. It was certainly one of Peter’s favourites and it is a joy for me to repeat it now that Jean is old enough to understand.

He was already rubbing his eyes when I laid him in his cot beside Anna and Henri’s big bed, tucking the quilt around him, and I could not resist kneeling beside him for a few moments, stroking his hair and crooning the lullaby that I’d sung to Peter on the few occasions I was allowed.

As I left the room, I found Anna seated on a chair at the turn of the stairs.

‘I hope you weren’t listening to my squawking up there?’

‘Your voice is very sweet,’ she said, patting the stool beside her. ‘Is he asleep?’

‘Soundly so.’

‘Then come and join me. The others are in the living room still arguing about politics, but I sense that you have news.’

‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘But first, you must tell me what was so preoccupying you at supper that you ate not a taste of that delicious flummery.’

She sighed. ‘I feel so weary much of the time and my feet are already swollen. I would dearly love to visit my father and Jane in Suffolk before the baby arrives but I fear I may have left it too late. The thought of spending two long days in a coach is just too much.’

‘Could they not come here again?’

‘I cannot ask him, Charlotte. His curate wrote recently that father had been laid low for several weeks since his last visit, and unable to preach, which makes him very grumpy. It does worry me.’

In the shadows, the blue bruises below her eyes appeared deeper than ever.

‘Is there anything I can do, dearest?’

‘I don’t believe so, not at the moment. I thank you for your concern. But where have you been? We have barely seen you since Easter. How is business faring these days? Did your flyers have the desired effect?’

‘Oh indeed, and I thank you and Henri for your help. The shop is busier than ever and we’ve even had to take on new seamstresses.’

‘I am so pleased. And did you go to Essex for Easter?’

‘Sadly no, but I went to Chiswick instead, and Jane organised a visit to Henrietta Howard’s house. And guess what?’

‘How can I guess? She was mysteriously raised from the dead and claimed you as her long-lost daughter?’

‘Don’t joke, it’s not so far from the truth. We found the silk.’

‘What do you mean, the silk?’

‘We went with David Garrick and his wife. And we found the gown.’

‘David Garrick? The actor?’ she cried. ‘And HH’s gown? Heavens. I cannot keep up with this. I urge you, start again. Tell me everything, from the beginning.’

By the time I’d finished, she was laughing. ‘What a brazen pair, rummaging in her ladyship’s wardrobe. But at least you have your proof.’

‘But how on earth did my mother get hold of the silk, unless . . .?’

‘Unless what, dearest?’

I explained how it was widely believed that Henrietta had fostered two of her illegitimate children – fathered by the king – with her brother. ‘Don’t you see? That is just what I was forced to do with Peter?’

‘I can see the parallels, Charlotte. But what are you getting at now?’

‘It is also rumoured that she bore other children. So where are they? What if . . .’ I hesitated to voice my darkest thoughts. ‘Could they have been raised in the Hospital, like me? What if – oh Anna, this sounds so stupid, saying it out loud.’

‘Say it. I promise not to laugh.’

‘Could it have been her who left the silk token?’

‘Henrietta Howard?’ Her face crumpled with the effort of trying to maintain a serious expression. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that Henrietta was your mother? And the king your father? Oh Charlotte, forgive me, but this sounds like you’ve made up something from a fairy story.’

‘I don’t know why you think it so absurd,’ I muttered, mildly defensive.

‘For a start, wouldn’t she have been too old?’

‘I don’t know, how old was she?’

‘You said yourself she died two years ago, and I remember people talking about how lively she had remained to the very end, even though she was deaf and had reached nearly threescore and twenty years. She would have been in her mid-fifties at the very least when you were born.’

But Louisa is seven years my senior. Perhaps she was Henrietta’s daughter?

‘And didn’t you yourself say she built this beautiful house on the Thames with money given by the king, and she left court to live there when she married her new husband?’ Anna went on. ‘And that’s where she brought up her so-called niece and nephew?’

I nodded.

‘When did she leave court? Did Mr Garrick say?’

‘A few years before the queen died.’

‘Queen Caroline died before we were born, Charlotte. But Monsieur Lavalle might remember the date. Let us ask him.’

‘No, please don’t, Anna. It’s a silly notion. Why don’t we just forget it?’

‘Silly or not, you will always wonder unless we prove it to be impossible.’

‘Very well, then. So long as you don’t tell him why we’re asking.’

‘Don’t be a dolt, of course I won’t,’ she said, standing up with a little groan. ‘Sorry, it’s my legs. I cannot remember them hurting this way with Jean.’

‘You must take it easy, my dearest,’ I said, following her down the stairs. ‘You have still three months to go yet.’

‘Don’t remind me. I wish it could be born tomorrow.’

Downstairs in the parlour the men were still making merry with a bottle of port while arguing about the rights and wrongs of the new acts that Parliament had passed to protect weavers’ wages. We waited patiently for the right moment to speak to Monsieur Lavalle.

‘Anna and I were having a discussion about the olden days,’ she started. ‘Can you remember when Queen Caroline died?’

‘What, another royal query? Whatever kind of mischief are you up to, the pair of you?’ The old boy’s eyes twinkled as he put down his glass. ‘However, since you ask, I remember precisely when it was. 1737. The funeral was at Westminster Abbey on the seventeenth of December, the very day that I married my dearest wife. I remember everyone joking that we’d married just in time to go into mourning, and thinking that business was going to be tough, weaving only black crepe.’

‘Why did you want to know?’ Henri piped up.

Anna gave him a fierce stare. ‘Oh, nothing. Just wondering.’ She took my hand. ‘Come, Charlotte, let’s check whether that naughty lad is still asleep.’

‘So, when were you born, Charlotte?’ she whispered, once we were out of earshot.

‘1741,’ I said. ‘In June.’

‘Four years after Queen Caroline died. Henrietta left court long before that. She couldn’t have been your mother.’

‘But she could have been Louisa’s,’ I said. ‘She is seven years older than me.’

Anna paused. ‘That is a remote chance, I grant you. Henrietta had illegitimate children, and Henrietta was the person for whom the silk was woven. But that does not mean she was your mother. You must give up these foolish notions before you are sent to the madhouse, dearest.’

‘But if HH is not our mother, then who? And how did she get hold of the silk?’

‘There is nothing for it, dear friend. You will have to ask your sister.’