The Hidden Thread Read online

  “Now get out of my sight, cabbage heads,” William bawled, lashing out with his boots as the crowd tried to drag the boys to safety, “and if I ever catch you touching an English lady again, I’ll string you up by your webbed feet.”

  “Do not be so harsh, Cousin,” Anna whispered, shocked by his violent response. “They were helping me. I had fainted from the heat.”

  “Dirty frogs,” he growled, barking instructions about the baggage to a man with a pushcart. “You should never have allowed it. You have much to learn about how a young lady should comport herself in the city.”

  “Yes, I expect I do,” Anna said in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone. He grabbed her arm again and began to drag her along the road with such haste that she had to trot to keep up.

  “Hurry along, Anna Butterfield. We have been waiting for hours. I cannot imagine why you did not send word of your arrival earlier. Had you done so, you would not have caused this trouble. You are most terribly late and supper has gone cold.”

  • • •

  Fortunately, it was but a few minutes—at William’s pace—from the Red Lyon to Spital Square. They stopped outside a house with a wide shop frontage: bow windows either side of a grand front door set with bottle glass, and double pillars that supported a porch to shelter callers from the rain. On a board hanging below the porch was written in elegant gold script: Joseph Sadler & Son, Mercers to the Gentry. They were here at last.

  She turned to go up the steps, but William grabbed her arm once more and pulled her onward, opening a smaller side door that led into the darkness of a long entrance hall. They passed two doors on the ground floor—probably leading into the shop area, she assumed—up some stairs to a wide landing, and through yet another door into the dining room.

  Uncle Joseph stepped forward first, welcoming her with a formal handshake and a smile that disappeared as soon as it had arrived, as though it were an infrequent and unexpected visitor. He was a daunting figure: tall and portly, whiskered and bewigged even at home, high-collared and tail-coated, with a well-rounded stomach held tight under his embroidered silk waistcoat. He must once have been a handsome man, but good living had taken its toll. His jowls drooped and wobbled like a turkey’s wattle.

  “Welcome, dear Niece,” he said. “We hope you will be happy here.” He waved his hand proprietorially around the sumptuously furnished room, in the center of which a deeply polished oak table laden with silver glistened in the light of many candles.

  Anna dipped her knee. “I am indebted to you, sir, for your generous hospitality,” she said.

  Aunt Sarah seemed a kindly sort with a smile that, unlike her husband’s, appeared quite accustomed to her face. She kissed Anna on both cheeks. “You poor thing, you look weary,” she said, standing back to regard her up and down. “And your clothes…” She gave a small sigh and her eyes flicked away as if the sight of Anna’s dress was too terrible to contemplate, even though it was her Sunday best. “Never mind. You shall have supper now and a good rest after your long journey. Tomorrow we can see about your wardrobe.”

  She has the same voice as my father, Anna thought, with the slight lisp that seems to run in the family. She was his younger sister, after all, but it was difficult, without staring, to divine precisely which features they shared. The lips, perhaps, or the eyebrows? Certainly not the stature. Sarah was very much shorter and more rounded, while her father was angular and long of limb, proportions which Anna had inherited and which, she knew, were no advantage for a woman. But the familiarity of her aunt’s features helped Anna feel at home.

  Cousin Elizabeth made an elegant curtsy.

  “Please do call me Lizzie, Cousin Anna. I am so looking forward to having an elder sister.” On her lips, the lisp sounded sweet, even endearing. “A brother is no use at all,” she added with a poisonous glance across the table. William returned a scowl which, in truth, did not seem to have left his face since their first encounter.

  Lizzie would be around fourteen years of age, Anna calculated. A pretty thing, she observed, round-faced like her mother but much slighter, all auburn ringlets and cream lace, six years younger than her brother and four years younger than herself. Sarah had borne several other children, she remembered, but these were the only two who had survived. She recalled her father sighing over his sister’s letters: “Another child gone into the arms of our Lord. Alas, poor Sarah. If only they could live somewhere with healthier air.” In church, he would name Sarah’s lost babies out loud, beseeching God to care for them in heaven.

  Anna understood from this litany of sadness that childbirth was something to be dreaded, perhaps more than anything else in the world. Yet how could it be avoided, she wondered, when one grew into a woman and became settled in the proper manner?

  They sat down and Joseph poured goblets of a liquid the color of ripe plums. “Claret,” he called it. As her uncle raised his glass with a toast “to the arrival of our dear cousin, Anna,” she took a tentative sip; it was sharper than communion wine but tasted delicious. She ventured another and yet another until she found herself becoming quite warm and relaxed.

  “You poor things. I cannot imagine the trials you have been through these past few months,” Aunt Sarah said, handing around a plateful of cold meats. “I do hope that dear Fanny’s last few weeks were not too difficult?”

  The warm glow disappeared as a vision of her mother appeared in Anna’s mind: ghostly pale and skeletal, propped against the pillows and struggling to contain paroxysms of coughing, gasping for every breath and unable to speak or eat for the congestion in her chest.

  It had been a long and lingering illness: a slow decline followed by apparent recovery, bringing new hope, only to be dashed by further decline. Throughout it all, Anna and her sister, Jane, had nursed their mother, trying as best they could to shield their father who, as the village vicar, had plenty of problems of his own: difficult parishioners, the demands of his diocesan masters, and the need to shore up the ruinous fabric of the church.

  The exhaustion of caring for her mother and running the household had kept Anna from dwelling too much on the tragedy ahead. When it finally came, Jane took to her bed and wept, so it seemed, for several weeks. Nothing could console her except for the sweetmeats she consumed by day and the warmth of her sister’s embrace in their shared bed by night.

  Their father, Theodore, though hollowed out and gray in countenance, continued about his daily work, the only difference being that he retired earlier to bed than usual. Once or twice, in the dead of night, Anna would hear heartrending sobs through the wall and longed to comfort him. But she resisted the impulse, sensing that he must be allowed to embrace this misery without needing to keep face for anyone else.

  As for herself, the anticipated collapse into despair never really happened. She rose each day, washed and dressed, and did her chores, made meals for the family, organized the funeral tea, and tried to smile when people commented on how well she was coping. But inside she felt empty, almost indifferent to her own misery. Grief was like sleepwalking through deep snow, its landscape endless and unchanging, every step painful and exhausting. The world seemed to become monochrome, colors lost their hue, sounds were muffled and distorted. It felt as though her own life had been taken along with her mother’s.

  Dragging herself away from these painful recollections, she turned back to the dining table and her waiting aunt. “Thank you, madam, she was peaceful at the end.” As she said it, she crossed her fingers in her lap. It was an old habit from childhood, when she believed it might save her from God’s wrath when lying. But then she uncrossed them as she realized that her words had a certain truth: the lifeless form laid out on the bed had looked peaceful, once all pain had gone.

  “And my dear brother Theo? How is he coping with his loss?”

  “His faith is a great comfort, as you can imagine,” Anna ventured, although she knew well that the opposite wa
s true: his faith had been sorely tested these past few months.

  “It is a cruel God, indeed, who takes with one hand while purporting to offer solace with the other,” her uncle said.

  “Each to their own, my dear,” Sarah muttered.

  “It is an interesting conjecture, all the same.” William’s eyes glittered, alert for the challenge, his thin lips in a sardonic twist. “Just what is the point of God, when all’s said and done?”

  “Shush, William,” Sarah said, sliding a glance toward Lizzie and back again to her son. “Save such debates for your club fellows.”

  A silence fell over the table. Anna took a couple of rather larger sips of claret. “I do hope you will forgive me for my tardy arrival. The coach was held up by a commotion, and we had to find another route into the city,” she said.

  William looked up sharply. “What kind of commotion? Where was this?”

  “I do not know exactly where, I am afraid. It was as we entered the city, and we could not see anything from the coach on account of having to draw down the blinds. There was much shouting—something about bread, I thought I could hear.”

  “Sounds like another food riot,” William said. “Probably those Frenchie weavers again, like last month. They’re always revolting. Have you heard anything, Pa?”

  Joseph shook his head, jaws working on the generous spoonful of meat and potato he had just stuffed into his mouth. “If they didn’t waste so much money on Geneva, they would have plenty for bread,” he muttered. “And it would help if those Strangers would stop stirring things up.”

  William took out his watch, put down his knife and spoon with a hurried clatter, and pushed back his chair. “Forgive me, I am late for the club,” he said, grabbing his jacket and bowing slightly in Anna’s direction. “We will meet again tomorrow, dear Coz. In the meantime, do try to stay away from cabbages. They can cause the most odorous indigestion.”

  Anna puzzled over this until, later, she recalled his “cabbage heads” jibe. Why he should be so vitriolic toward two innocent and most helpful young men was a mystery, but so much of this new world was unfathomable that it made her feel quite dizzy to contemplate.

  • • •

  After the meal, Lizzie was deputed to show her the rest of the house—the upper floors at least, for the ground floor was entirely devoted to Uncle’s business and the basement, she presumed, was the domain of the servants. The building stood four stories tall and, although deep from front to back, it felt less spacious than her own dear vicarage and nothing like as homely. She admired the opulent silk hangings, the elegant furniture, the painted wainscoting in each of the main rooms, and the shutters on every window, but the overall effect was to make the place darker and more formal.

  Next to the dining room, at the front of the house, above what she presumed to be the shop front, was a wide, elegant drawing room with a cast-iron fireplace and marble surround. Out of the window, Anna could see the street and the small square of grass with a few young trees, which, she thought to herself, no doubt afforded the house its grand address. And yet the building was attached on either side to others so that it was difficult to see where one started and the other ended. Land must be very scarce in this cramped city, she thought to herself, that even in such prosperous areas they cannot afford to be separated from their neighbors by even a few feet.

  “Do you have a garden?” she asked.

  “It’s just a patch of moldy grass and a tree,” Lizzie replied quickly. “I can show you tomorrow.”

  “I love to sketch natural things.”

  “There is little to inspire an artist,” Lizzie said. “Although I know where we could see flowers and fruits in great abundance.”

  “Where is that?” Anna asked.

  “At the market. All sorts, from farms and Strangers’ gardens and from foreign countries too, piled high in their thousands. It is a wonderful sight.” Lizzie laughed suddenly. “I do not suppose that is what you had in mind for a painting?”

  “Not really,” Anna said, pleased to be talking of lighter matters after so many serious hours. “Although I should love to see it.”

  “Mama will not let us enter the market; she says it is common. ‘’Twould not be decorous for a young lady.’” Lizzie mimicked her mother’s tone, crinkling her pretty features into a grimace. “I think that’s silly, don’t you? But I shall ask if we can visit our new church tomorrow, so we can pass by.”

  Anna demurred. It would be unwise to appear disloyal to her aunt at such an early stage. “I could turn my pen to architectural scenes instead, but I do find the perspective of buildings such a puzzle, don’t you?”

  Lizzie’s face fell, her smiles gone as quickly as they arrived. “I would love to be able to draw, but my tutor is so scornful of my attempts that I scarcely dare to try.”

  “Then I shall teach you,” Anna said.

  “Oh yes,” Lizzie said, instantly recovered. “I should like that very much.”

  • • •

  After her tour of the house, Anna begged leave to retire.

  “Of course, you must be exhausted,” her aunt said. “But I must warn you that your chamber is up many stairs, and it is rather plain. We are short of rooms because the ground floor is given over to the business. We hope to move shortly, to an address more suited to Sadler and Son’s status, do we not, my dearest?” She smiled at her husband but his face remained impassive. “Lizzie, why don’t you show Anna to her room? Her luggage is already there and I shall send the maid at once with water.”

  They climbed a narrow, wooden stairway to the very top floor, which Lizzie called the “old weaving loft.” It had been converted, she said, now that Uncle Joseph had finished with the weaving and turned to selling finished silks for his living. The room, next door to one shared by the cook and Betty the maid, was indeed small and plain, with a wooden chest of drawers, a side table with a bowl and ewer, an upright chair, and a bed that, although simple, looked marvelously inviting to her weary limbs.

  After Lizzie had clattered back down the stairs, Anna opened the casement, took a long breath of warm night air, and sighed deeply, releasing the muscles of her face that had grown painful from holding a polite smile.

  • • •

  She climbed under the covers, but sleep was slow to come.

  The bed was short, the horsehair mattress was lumpy, and the blanket smelled unaired. But if not as comfortable as her feather bed at home, she was at least warm and safe. What more could she want for?

  It was certainly warm in this attic on a hot July evening. Little breeze stirred the air, even up here on the top floor. The noise from the street was astonishing—did people in the city never rest? It seemed hardly to have abated since she first stepped from the coach this afternoon: brays of laughter from boisterous gangs of young men, the shrill calls of women and wails of children, the howling of dogs and keening of cats, the clanging of coaches, and the hammering of handcart wheels on the cobbles. In her village, all would be quiet at this time of night except for the rhythmical boom of the breakers when the wind was in the east.

  What an adventure it had been. Despite the sorrow of leaving and the heaviness in her heart, which had not lifted since her mother’s death, she could not help being quietly excited.

  “Life has much to offer a talented young woman such as you,” her father had said as they sat together that last evening. “There is so much to see and so much to learn, much in the world to savor and enjoy. But you will not find it here in this village. You must go and seek your fortune in the city.”

  “Like Dick Whittington, I suppose?”

  “Indeed,” he laughed. “And if you become mayor of London, then you must invite us to your grand residence. But remember you can come home whenever your black cat leads you here.”

  • • •

  Even though the first day on the road had been perfectl
y straightforward and without incident, every small event came as a surprise for a novice traveler. She had been instructed to refrain from conversing with the other passengers for fear of encouraging intimacy, but it was so rare to spend time in the company of strangers that she could not prevent herself from scrutinizing them, as covertly as possible to avoid appearing rude.

  All ages of human life seemed to be represented in the cramped space of the stagecoach. Next to her on the bench was a stout gentleman who studied his newspaper in a self-important kind of way, harrumphing with disapproval at what he read and digging her in the ribs whenever he turned the page. After a while he fell asleep, tipping alarmingly sideways onto her shoulder before stirring and sharply pulling himself upright, only to repeat the process every few minutes.

  She could not see the faces of the two women on his other side but knew they must be herring girls from Yarmouth, unmistakable from their odor and redness of hand. On the opposite bench, two stout housewives from Bungay occupied sufficient space for three and chattered unceasingly all the way to Ipswich. Each jiggled a small child on one knee and a baby on the other.

  The children whined incessantly before falling asleep, with dribbles of snot streaming unchecked from their noses, while the chubby cupids took it in turns to cry: piercing, disturbing sounds in such close proximity. In between wails, these babes would bestow cherubic smiles upon any who caught their eye, and all would be forgiven until the next bout of yowling. When it went on for too long, their mothers would yank down their tops and stuff the wailing infants’ faces into the exposed folds of disconcertingly white flesh.

  A withered elderly gentleman had levered himself into the narrow space next to the two ladies and, when he too fell asleep, Anna feared that he might be silently squeezed to death, with no one the wiser until all had disembarked.

  To reserve her stares and pass the time, she took out the pocket Bible her father had pressed into her hand at their parting. Her faith had evaporated during the long nights of her mother’s agony and had never returned, but the familiar phrases of the epistles were comforting. As she opened the scuffed leather cover, she saw for the first time that he had inscribed inside the frontispiece, in his vicar’s spidery hand: