32

French knots: a favoured decorative stitch used to create accents in a design. The size can be increased with additional turns of the thread around the needle.

‘Do you recall me telling you how I was taken from my mother and placed with an aunt? And how Ambrose took me on as a maid?’

‘Then after a few years you became his housekeeper, and later he asked you to be his wife?’

Louisa nodded and paused a second, forehead furrowing as she searched for words. ‘But those years were not as straightforward as I painted them.’

‘My dear, what happened?’

‘This is the shame I hoped never to reveal to you, nor anyone else.’ She spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her. ‘You see, before I met Ambrose I had already set my heart on another man.’

I could breathe again. If this was the extent of her secret, it was of little consequence. ‘It is no shame for a woman to have many suitors, dearest. Why do you say so?’

‘He was not a suitor, Agnes. He was a client.’

‘A client? What kind of business were you engaged in?’ My question was genuinely innocent; I had no inkling of what she meant.

Her cheeks flooded crimson as the wine stain on her lips. ‘I was a streetwalker.’

Of course I knew the term but it did not register, not at once. ‘You walked the streets?’ I said, stupidly.

‘I was a whore, Agnes.’ She spat out the words, staring at a point past me, grimacing as though the memory caused her physical pain. ‘A common whore.’

I shook my head, still struggling to understand. Surely this was all wrong? How could my respectable sister ever have been a street girl?

‘Please don’t think badly of me, Agnes.’ She dropped her head into her hands. ‘I had no choice. My aunt and uncle forced me into it, to pay for my bed and lodging. I hated it, of course. It was degrading and dangerous and I pleaded with them to set me free, but I was trapped because they handled all the transactions. They made good money from me.’

I took a gulp of wine, shaken by the horror of her revelation, the cruelty of it. Our mother had entrusted her child to the safe care of this couple and they had repaid this trust by making her walk the streets. ‘I would never think badly of anything you do, dearest sister. You must not be ashamed, for you had no choice. I know how that feels. Remember how I was forced myself, by that vile man at the Manor? I had no choice either.’

She nodded.

‘Anyway, that is all in the past. We are both strong, and we have both survived.’

Now she began to speak, the words rushing over themselves like water from an overflowing well. ‘But there is more, Agnes, for I found myself with child. I had already known this man for several months and he paid my aunt and uncle well in return for my exclusive services. He treated me so tenderly that I imagined myself to be in love with him. Although he was a good deal older, he was so handsome, so wealthy and a widower, and he seemed so fond towards me that I began to entertain the hope that he would make me an honest woman, poor deluded fool that I was. Why would a respectable merchant want to marry a slut?’

‘You were never a . . .’ I started.

‘But that is what he called me when I eventually plucked up the courage to tell him of my condition. He flew into a great rage and sent me from his house, forbidding me ever to return.’

‘Who was this terrible man, Louisa, who treated you so?’

She ignored me, talking on.

‘A kind of madness gripped me, dearest, for the terrible shame of it I suppose. One day I simply headed for Blackfriars Bridge, thinking that I might kill myself. But I didn’t have the courage, not then or even later. I could not return to my aunt’s house so I sold my body on the streets for a few more weeks – until my condition became so obvious that no man would have me – and managed to save enough to rent a hovel, which is where the child was born. I was starving and desperate, but even then I could not bring myself to end our lives.’

My ribs ached from holding my breath. ‘Whatever happened to the baby?’

‘Someone told me about a new place that had been set up to the west of the city, the Foundling Hospital.’

My neck began to prickle, as though something unseen and terrifying was creeping up behind me, too terrible to face. ‘You took your child to the Hospital?’ I gasped. ‘Just like our mother did?’

She nodded. ‘It was just a few weeks after that I learned of the vicar who was seeking a housemaid and went to apply for the post. And that is when I began the sampler, once I was settled there. For something to remember her by. But I am no seamstress, as you know. It defeated me and I never had the heart to finish it.’ There was a half-smile on Louisa’s lips, her gaze far away, deep in the memories.

‘She was the dearest thing, a perfect child. I called her Agnes,’ she whispered, kneeling forward on the carpet before me and reaching up to cup my cheeks with warm, soft palms as though I were something infinitely precious.

‘Don’t you see?’ she whispered. ‘It was you. Agnes Potton.’

There was a roaring in my ears, so loud it was almost painful, and I began to shake, unable to listen any more, unable to bear her touch. Pushing her roughly away, I began to pace the floor, rubbing my face in my hands, trying to wash away the confusion. My cap became dislodged and I threw it to the floor. Nothing made sense.

‘That’s right, my darling.’ She stood up now and walked towards me, her face beaming, reaching out for me. ‘I am your mother.’

Her smile was too bright, false and almost menacing, like a jester. The air felt heavy and viscous, thick with deception, hard to breathe.

‘No!’ I yelled, arms flailing to fight her off. ‘You’re lying.’ What kind of warped trick was this? ‘This cannot be right. You are my sister. And you are only seven years older than me. How can you be my mother?’

She stopped a few feet away. ‘You are right,’ she said, ‘about the lying. I have been lying to you ever since we met, dearest. But I am not lying now, that I promise. All that is over with. What I am telling you now is the absolute truth.’

Recoiling in disgust, I pushed her roughly out of the way, hurrying out of the room. Where to go? Gasping for air, I ran out into the garden, across the damp grass to the old apple tree, perhaps something, anything, solid and familiar.

‘No, no. It can’t be,’ I shouted. ‘Don’t let it be. I don’t want it to be like this.’ But the tree gave no comfort: as I clasped my arms around its trunk and pressed my cheek hard against the rough bark, it left my skin scraped and raw.

Blinded by tears now, I ran back to the path. Ahead of me was the gate, and beyond that the great solid form of the church silhouetted against the darkening sky. But it offered no sense of peace or solace; that was Ambrose’s realm, a place reeking of hellfire and, ultimately, of death.

I began to pace once more, not knowing which way to turn. Along the path on either side of me stood the old yew trees, dark shadows against the sky. They had often appeared sinister or even threatening, especially when they creaked in the wind. But now, in the still of evening, the only sound was the gentle goodnight twitters of sparrows nesting in their dense branches, and their presence seemed to calm my thoughts.

What times had they witnessed, these great ancient trees, in their centuries of growing? What displays of human joy and tragedy, what ordinary lives, what extraordinary events? My feet slowed. The sky above me was a deep, luminous blue, speckled with early stars. It was not cold, even now, but the air was damp and laden with dew and I shivered, pulling my shawl close around my shoulders.

There were footsteps on the gravel behind me, the warmth of a hand on my shoulder and a gentle whisper: ‘Dearest, I am so sorry.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, still dizzied with confusion.

‘Come, let me help you up.’ She cupped my elbow. ‘Let us go inside, and we can talk calmly and sensibly.’

She led me indoors, sat me down, poured more wine and bade me take a sip, then another. She took her seat and waited quietly. I could not meet her eyes. That face had been so dear to me, every movement and every gesture so familiar, yet she was a stranger now. How could she possibly be my mother? We were so alike, two peas in a pod, everyone said. Of course we were sisters.

I finished the glass and she filled it again. But even the burn of the wine slipping down my throat could not ease the ice in my heart.

‘But you are only seven years older than me,’ I said again.

She looked into her glass, as though it held a secret. Then, eventually, she looked up.

‘I lied to you, Agnes. I was fifteen when I gave birth to you.’

I gaped at her. ‘You are fifteen years older than me? How is that possible? You look so young.’

‘At any other time, your words would be flattering, dearest. But I am afraid that it is the truth. Remember? I said there would be no more lies.’

The anger was rising in my chest once more. ‘So why? Why did you tell me so many lies?’

‘I never wanted to, Agnes. Had it been my own choice . . .’

‘Then why? WHY?’ My shout reverberated around the silent house and I remembered that upstairs my son was sleeping. I lowered my voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this long ago?’

She took a deep breath. ‘It was part of my agreement with Ambrose. So that you would never guess that I was your mother.’

In that moment I hated her, wanted to bawl at her, hit her, anything to stop her saying those words, the very words I had wanted to hear all of my life, now violated by their terrible deceit and poisoned by that brute Ambrose. She was not my mother. How could she be? How could she ever be?

Through the tumult in my head I could hear her voice continuing quietly and calmly. ‘You must understand, dearest. I was but a child myself, ignorant and terrified of having to spend the rest of my life on the streets. Giving you away was the hardest thing I have ever done, and the grief of it nearly broke me. Even to this day the memory of it is etched on my heart. All I ever wanted was to have you back again.’

‘Why did you not come looking for me, then?’

‘Ah, I so wished to, my dearest. You cannot know how much I wished it. I felt your loss like the loss of a limb and I often dreamed that you were back in my arms. But I was in no position, a lowly maid with no home of my own. The years went by and I had to resign myself to never seeing you again. I rose through the ranks and became Ambrose’s housekeeper, as you know. Even then, how would I keep a child?’

Her dilemma was all too familiar to me. I should have felt sympathy, but anger still burned in my heart.

‘It was when he asked for my hand in marriage that I summoned the courage to tell him about you and to bargain with him, asking if we might search for you. It took him several days to give me an answer. He agreed with my proposal, but on one condition. As a man of the church, he said, he could not allow it to be known that his wife had borne a child out of wedlock. It would cause too much scandal. So he made me vow that, should we ever trace you – and I suppose he never believed that we would – you would be known as my sister, a sister born just seven years after me, so that no one would suspect the truth. Imagine my despair: how could I think of agreeing to such a dreadful deception? But I was in no position to argue. My only thought, every moment of every day and night, was that I might once more be able to hold you in my arms, and this was my only chance of finding you again.’

So this was the so-called ‘edifice of deceit’. My mind still struggled to make sense of everything she was telling me. I felt untethered, unstable, like walking on quicksand, disconnected from the world. Even this room with its familiar furnishings and memories, both happy and troubled, now felt strange, as though I were seeing everything for the first time.

Louisa knelt at my feet once more, taking my hands, her upturned face desperate now, beseeching. ‘My darling, please forgive me. Sister or daughter, it makes no difference to my love for you.’

She had lied for so long that my place in the world and everything in my life was being turned upside down. ‘How can I forgive you, when I can no longer tell what is the truth and what is not any more?’ I shouted.

Her eyes shone with tears. ‘My darling, I would never have lied to you if I’d had my own way. It was the cost I paid for being able to have you by my side again. Like the arrangement between us for . . .’ She pointed towards the room upstairs.

Peter. My heart seemed to falter in my chest. My beautiful son. Of course I understood only too well the pain of giving him up and would have travelled the earth to find him again, even given my life for him had it been asked for. And of course I would have accepted almost any condition if it meant the chance of being reunited with him again.

But my anger still burned. How could she have deceived me for so long? ‘Why tell me now, Louisa?’

‘It was you who asked, remember? You who found the sampler. Besides, now that Ambrose . . .’

‘Is dead?’

She nodded. ‘There will be no more lies. I promise. Now we can be entirely honest with each other for the rest of our lives.’

‘And what about Peter? Are we going to go on deceiving him, just as you have with me?’

She blanched and sat back on her heels. ‘I knew this would arise, and have given it much thought. But how do you think he would feel if we told him you are really his mother, and I his grandmother? I know that we have promised there will be no more lies, but is that the right thing to do, just now, after all that has happened and all the upheavals we’re facing?’

Her words gave me pause; of course she was right. He would feel betrayed just as I was, upset and angry at having been deceived all these years, his world turned topsy-turvy even as he was still grieving for Ambrose and facing the loss of his childhood home.

‘Perhaps we can explain it to him one day in the future, when he is a grown man and better able to understand,’ I said.

She wiped her eyes with the corner of a sleeve and managed a watery smile. ‘I know it will take time for you to accept what I have told you. All I can say is that I have always loved you and you will always mean everything in the world to me. You are my only, precious daughter. I pray that you will in time find it in your heart to forgive me.’

Slowly my anger began to dissipate, and I found myself able to think more clearly and calmly. We took more wine and talked on and on, late into the night, exploring the many avenues that had hitherto been closed on account of Ambrose’s insistence. She described the intensity of her joy on discovering that I was still alive and had been found and then, even more overwhelming, our first meeting here in Westford Abbots.

When it was discovered that I was expecting, she had been forced to accede to Ambrose’s insistence that they should adopt the child, and even further layers of deceit had to be woven. The alternative he presented her with was to send me away, never allowing her to see me again.

‘He so wanted a son, and I’d always felt it was somehow my fault for failing to provide him with one,’ she said. ‘I knew only too well what kind of life you would have faced without our support, and besides, I could not bear to lose you again. But I promise we shall have no more lies between us now.’

Like small, slow drops of a gentle balm, her words began to melt my heart.

‘I had never been happier,’ she went on. ‘I would wake each morning and pinch myself. I had a perfect sister and a beautiful son, but even this bliss was tainted by the pain of knowing that I could never tell either of you the truth. Ambrose made me swear that I must never, ever let slip anything that might undermine his reputation, which is why it came as such a shock when you showed me that silk, dearest. I was terrified that if you persisted in pressing for the truth, he might throw you out and I would lose you forever.’

‘I was so sure the silk would lead me to my mother,’ I said. ‘When I discovered that it had been woven for the king’s mistress I even allowed myself to believe that I had royal blood in my veins.’

She laughed. ‘The truth is much duller, I’m afraid. My mother – your grandmother Agnes – really was the lost soul I told you of. She lived in squalor and drowned her sorrows in gin. I never knew my father – and I suspect that neither did she. My aunt was harsh towards me, but the truth is I would probably have died in that hovel had she not taken me in.’

‘I went looking for her, you know.’

‘Looking for who?’

‘The woman you told me was our mother. I went to Stepney Green and searched the graveyard. I even met the vicar and he let me look at the birth, marriage and death records. But I couldn’t find any Pottons.’

‘That is because my aunt insisted I take their family name, so Potton is my uncle’s surname.’

‘Then what was your mother’s name?’

‘Cooper,’ she said. ‘I was born Louisa Cooper. In Stepney Green, though I doubt my mother ever took the trouble to register me.’

‘But her death might be in the records, and she may have been buried there?’ It was a common name and I might have read it on a gravestone, but I had no memory of it.

‘Perhaps we could go back one day,’ she said. ‘It could have been a pauper’s grave and even unmarked, but her death might be in the records, somewhere.’

‘Of course, if you wish,’ I said. ‘At least we would know what we were looking for.’

‘Forgive me, dearest, for sending you on such a wild goose chase.’

I glanced over at the table where the sampler still lay exactly as she’d left it what felt like a lifetime ago.

‘No, it was the silk Anna bought at the auction that sent me on the chase,’ I said. ‘I felt sure I had seen it before, and now I know why.’

‘I was so shocked when you showed me,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Just seeing it again brought everything back, and I was terrified you would uncover my deception.’

‘So wherever did you get hold of it?’

‘From the customer I told you about, the merchant. He’d boasted of confidential royal commissions and even showed some of them to me, so I knew where they were stored. When he sent me away, I managed to stuff a few samples beneath my petticoat before I left. My plan was to blackmail him with them somehow or at least sell them for the silver in the thread.’

Louisa . . . the merchant . . . that silk . . . the royal commission. The connections were bewildering. A sudden shocking thought flashed into my mind. ‘Was his name Girardieu?’ I stuttered. ‘The one who threw you out?’

She glanced at me, sharply. ‘Do you know him?’

‘He’s the merchant who dealt with the commission for Henrietta Howard, whose silk was sold at auction. Anna and I went to visit him in Spital Square. But he’s gone now – I went back to check and the house was all dark and closed up.’

‘Ha! Gone bankrupt. He deserves it.’

The realisation crept into my head only slowly, a small whispery voice growing louder and louder until it became a shout. ‘Monsieur Girardieu was the man you were with when you . . .’ I faltered. ‘When you got pregnant? He was the father of your child?’

She nodded.

‘You are sure?’ Nausea swilled in my stomach.

‘He was my only client.’

Nothing was real any more. It felt as though I was standing apart from myself, looking at another person, a daughter who had not only discovered her mother – although it would take some time to think of Louisa in that way – but also a father?

That day, when Anna and I had visited Monsieur Girardieu, I’d felt a curious sense of recognition, even affiliation. Now I knew why. I’d found my father. Even met him, shaken his hand. In any other circumstances I might have been ecstatic, but in that moment felt only a sense of revulsion at the way he had so cruelly discarded Louisa and their unborn child.

‘Did you ever see him again?’

‘Of course not. He disowned me, remember? Told me never to darken his door again. Left me destitute and back on the streets, with child.’ She paused a moment. ‘Although I do sometimes wonder whether you have inherited from him your interest in fabrics, your flair for design and colour.’

‘I hope to be more fortunate in business than he was,’ I said, finding a smile at last.

‘You know how proud I am of your success, Agnes, I always have been. You are such a talented young woman, running a successful business on your own account.’

‘I could never have achieved any of it without your help, you know.’

‘All I’ve ever achieved is being a housewife, a supporter of my husband’s good works.’

‘And a mother,’ I added. ‘You have been a very good mother to Peter.’

She flushed. ‘It means a lot to hear you say that. I have always been conscious of you looking over my shoulder, making sure that I raised your son as you would have done, had things been different.’

‘Of course you have. You have done a marvellous job.’

‘I want to be a good mother for you too, my darling, if you will let me.’

On an impulse, I blurted it out. ‘Come and live with me, Louisa, so we can be a proper family, the three of us. It makes such sense. Peter would love London, once he got used to the idea. In time, we could find him a good apprenticeship.’

‘He still wants to become a sea captain, thanks to you,’ she said, smiling. ‘Perhaps we could find him something less dangerous?’

‘My place is small but maybe with your money from Ambrose we could afford to rent somewhere bigger. At least, we could ask old Boyson, see what he has to offer? And right now my business is going really well. It has grown so much I could really do with some extra help. What do you think?’

‘How can I be of any help? I am no seamstress, Agnes, as well you know.’

‘I urgently need someone to keep my finances in order. I’ve seen your household accounts and they are neater than any I’ve ever managed even in years of trying.’

‘But I am so ignorant of that world. You would need to teach me the ways of business, dearest.’

‘Of course I would. It would be fun.’

‘Then, if you are sure, I cannot imagine anything better than the three of us, living together as a proper family.’

As we embraced it began to dawn on me that despite her revelations, nothing had really changed. If anything, the bonds between us had become even more powerful, more all-consuming. I had always held my sister in such high regard, felt the need to please her, to comply with unspoken expectations. But now there was no sibling competition. Her love for me was as unbounded and unconditional as that I felt for Peter. Whatever our mistakes or misdemeanours we would always put each other first, for the rest of our lives.

There was more, although it took some days afterwards to appreciate fully. That familiar, silent ache of feeling that something was missing, that deep knot of anxiety that had persisted for so many years, had melted away. I had found my mother.

Perhaps now, after all, I could really know myself.