The Silk Weaver's Daughter (11 page)

By now, the sun was high in the sky. It was excessively hot, and sweat poured down Pierre’s face as he and the others made their way back through the gorse bushes. He was relieved to see the coach still sitting there, shimmering in the heat, with the horses cropping the short grass at the side of the track.

There was no motion or sound from inside the coach, and as Pierre opened the door, it horrified him to see Louise and Andre both sound asleep, but Jeanette was nowhere in sight. His tiny, fair-haired daughter was gone.

Chapter 15

“L
ouise, Louise, wake up,” Pierre cried, shaking her awake. “I told you to watch the children. What is wrong with you, girl? Jeanette isn’t here. Where did she go?”

Louise’s eyes flew open; she yawned then jumped up in her seat looking startled. “Oh, no! Oh, Papa. I’m so sorry. I just can’t stay awake. I don’t know why. Oh, where could she have gone?” She was white with terror.

Young Andre opened his eyes and looked up at his father. “Jenni go
pipi,”
he announced proudly in French. He pointed to the gorse bush from where they had all just emerged

“I’ll speak to you later, young lady,” her father shouted at Louise, looking daggers at her. Then turning to Luc, he asked, “What should we do?”

“I don’t think she could have gone far, none of us saw or heard her on the way down. Let’s spread out.” He looked over to where Claudine and Catherine were standing, wringing their hands. They both looked terrified. “Catherine, you go with Louise along the track, back the way we came. Keep looking into the brush and calling her name.”

“Jean Guy, take Claude and do the same thing that way.” He pointed to the road ahead of the carriage. Turning back to Claudine he instructed, “Madame, you and the little boy stay here inside the carriage. Jeanette may find her way back herself. Someone should be here for her. In the meantime, Pierre and I’ll do a thorough search of the bush around here. Whoever finds her, yell as loud as you can, and we’ll all meet back here. One moment, Pierre. There’s something we’ll need.”

He climbed up to the driver’s seat. In a moment, he returned with two cutting tools—one for each of them. He stepped into the bush and began slashing a swath through the gorse. Pierre took the device Luc handed him and followed his example.

Five minutes had passed when Luc stopped cutting and put his hand to his ear. “Shh,” he cautioned Pierre. “I heard something.”

From the top of the mound, they could hear a child’s wailing.
“Non, non,
leave me alone. I don’t want to go with you,” the little girl cried out in French. “I want my maman. Oh, I want my maman.” The wailing started again.

Both men rushed through the gorse, ignoring the prickly branches slapping at them and leaving scratches on their faces. There, on the mound, a strange, stooped old crone was dragging the weeping Jeanette along by her arm. From her odd, pointed hat to her heavy men’s boots, the woman was dressed in black, relieved only by her dirty-grey hair, which straggled down her back. A rank smell of dirt and sweat, and something else unpleasant emanated from her.

“Madame,” Pierre yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Halte
—
halte,
I say. That is the child of me!”

The woman stopped in surprise and let go of the little girl’s hand. Jeanette immediately ran to her father. “Papa, I want to go home,” she cried out. He picked up the weeping child and covered her tear streaked face with kisses.

“There, there,
ma petite.
You’re fine now. Maman’s waiting for you.”

Luc yelled at the old woman, waving his cutting tool at her. She backed away and hobbled off towards the gigantic stones. Before she disappeared between two of the standing monoliths, she cackled wildly and shook her right hand at them. Once more, Pierre felt a cold tingling down his spine.

“What is she doing?” he asked. “Putting a curse on us, you think? Let’s get back to the carriage, Luc. I don’t think I’ll be back to this place anytime soon. I’ll keep my distance from black magic from now on to be sure.”

“Yes, I agree. After seeing that woman, I don’t think I’ll be back soon either, Pierre. There’s no good to come from any dealings with that old hag. The very smell of her is evil.”

By the time they arrived at the outskirts of Winchester, it was almost one o’clock, and they were all extremely hungry. “We can stop awhile here, Pierre. There’s a good inn past the town square, so you can take your time getting something to eat. We’ll have no trouble reaching Reading tonight, and by tomorrow afternoon, we will be at my brother’s home. You are almost at your destination,
mon ami.”

However, as they got nearer the town center, they found the track crowded with people. Luc looked puzzled. “I wonder what’s going on,” he said. “It’s never been like this before.” Their progress was constantly impeded, so he finally halted the team of horses.

“Monsieur,” Pierre called out to one of the men in the crowd. “Why goes everybody to the city? What ’appens there?”

“Haven’t you heard, stranger?” The man looked at Pierre with interest, obviously noticing his accent. “They’re finally going to chop the head off of Alice Lisle today. It’s about time too.”

“A woman—beheaded? ‘ere in England?” Pierre was stunned. “For what?”

“They caught her harbouring a group of Protestants who rebelled against King James. Good riddance to her, I say!”

Pierre gasped, and Luc looked over at him. “I guess you never heard of the Monmouth Rebellion then,” he stated.

“No, I did not. What is that?”

“Well, when King Charles died last February, his brother, James inherited the throne. However, Charles had an illegitimate son whom he has acknowledged and given a title—‘The Duke of Monmouth’. This son felt the throne should be…”

“Just a minute,” Pierre interjected. “King Charles is dead?”

“Yes. Didn’t you hear that?”

“No, I did not. Isn’t this James a Catholic?”

“Yes, but at the moment, he tries to appease everyone. He even attempted to stop the beheading of Alice, but it had…”

“Maudit.”
In his agitation, Pierre cut him off again. “Jacques never told me that Charles had died. That’s the reason I came here. King Charles offered us all sanctuary. He promised to protect Huguenots. And now there’s this Catholic to deal with? And they are beheading a Protestant? Will this hatred never end?”

“Do you want to see it then, Pierre? It looks as though it will start in the town square fairly soon.”

“No, Luc. In France, I saw sufficient horror to last me a lifetime and now, at that Henge place, I’ve experienced enough terror for one day. Me—I think we’ll simply find the inn you spoke of, and have our dinner. Then let us be out of this city as fast as possible.”

There was little excitement on the rest of the trip to Wandsworth and Pierre found himself relieved to be finally close to London. Luc told them, they were to stay overnight at his brother’s home, which was large and comfortable.

“I’m sure he would be most happy for you to stop over longer. I think you all need another rest, Pierre. You might find life in London quite difficult at first.”

Luc was right. Robert Le Blanc wanted them to stay longer. He had many questions about France and remembering the stories his father had told of their own families’ flight, he was delighted to help any Huguenots escaping from the long sword of King Louis. The Le Blancs owned a mill that produced a superb scarlet-coloured dye and was already becoming famous all over England as being perfect for dyeing hats. Particularly since they guaranteed the colour would not run in bright red rivulets down the face of the wearer in wet weather. As Luc had told Pierre, his brother was a wealthy man because of it.

“Coming to England has been a great blessing to many of us,” Robert Le Blanc explained to Pierre. “And this is a great area to get established, if you find you don’t like Spitalfields. Some of our people are hat makers and some make wigs, so I’m sure you could do well here as a silk weaver. We are free to hold our meetings as we please.. It’s much nicer here than being in the city. I’m sure you would like it. Stop awhile and see for yourselves.”

“No doubt my family would like the country better. However, I have a house waiting for me in London and money established with Paul Thibault, the goldsmith, so I suppose we had better start for the city as soon as possible. Luc has to take the horses back to Salisbury tomorrow, so we’ll have to find another mode of transportation to the city. Have you any idea how we can get there?”

“There’s a hackney coach leaves every morning. If they can’t oblige you tomorrow, you can reserve for the next day. For the appropriate amount of money, they’ll take you right to your final destination.”

“Well then, we’ll plan on the morning one, if they can accommodate us.”

“But we’re glad to have you here with us, Pierre.” Robert LeBlanc continued. “Your family is exceedingly brave. In fact, there’s a meeting tonight. Perhaps you could say a few words to the group about your experience. Most of their ancestors escaped from France over the last century, so they all understand some French, and I think they should be aware of what our brothers from home now have to go through to get here. I could go and arrange it with the pastor right now, and I’ll see about a coach for you, as well. Do you mind telling your story?”

“No, not at all. I know there’ll be many fleeing France that won’t have had the assistance I’ve had, and I’m happy to say anything that would help them.”

That evening, Pierre gave a stirring talk in French to the Huguenot group, which Robert translated into English. He hoped it would rouse them to action to help the many refugees who would certain to be arriving over the next few months. Afterwards, the members of the congregation crowded around him, asking questions about his life across the channel, and assuring him, they were ready and willing to help their French brothers.

Lying in bed in the comfortable room Luc’s brother had given them for the night, Pierre found it difficult to sleep. The excitement of being with fellow worshippers, as well as wondering what his journey’s end the next day would bring, left him tossing and turning far into the night. No matter what London or the house is like, we must stay there a year, he thought. My family needs some stability after all this uncertainty.

With that settled in his mind, he finally fell asleep.

Chapter 16

London, September 4, 1685

Julian Calendar

T
he following morning, Pierre and his family set off in a hired coach from Wandsworth to London. Following the instructions given him by Jacques, he directed the driver to the house of Paul Thibault, in an affluent area called Soho. His cousin had told him, Monsieur Thibault was one of the many Huguenots whose ancestors came to London during the heated persecution in the 16th century. There, his family had done well in the gold trade, and Paul was a man of property. Jacques assured him the goldsmith had a reputation for total honesty, and well known to be most reliable in caring for the assets of others.

Even from outside, the house at #14 Soho Square appeared attractive. Although built since the great fire, it was in mock Tudor style, with lovely, leaded glass windows and a half-timbered façade. Pierre’s impression was that Monsieur Thibault was indeed a wealthy man.

While the rest of his family waited in the commercial carriage, he climbed the steps and rang the bell pull beside the massive oak door. After a few seconds, it was opened by a footman. Giving the man his name, he asked if it would be convenient to see Monsieur Thibault.

“The monsieur ’as been in expectation for me, I believe,” he explained in heavily accented English.

“Oh, then come in, sir,” the servant replied. He ushered him into the large foyer and motioned him to a chair. “Mr. Thibault is upstairs, but I’ll ask if he can see you now.”

As Pierre waited, he took the time to look at his surroundings. The entry hall was enormous with an archway to the left leading off into an elaborate drawing-room, beyond which he could make out a generous-sized dining area. At the back of the hallway, a wide wooden staircase ascended to the second floor. To the right and front of the stairs were two doors, the nearest of which was closed. However, the one to the rear was wide open and, from his seat, Pierre could view a smaller withdrawing room with two cosy chairs in front of an elegant marble fireplace. The floors were parquet covered with a multi-coloured Turkish rug. All the visible furnishings looked expensive to Pierre, but not ostentatious, and he thought they would be comfortable.

The sound of light footsteps alerted him, and he looked up as Monsieur Thibault descended the staircase. He was a tall man with an athletic body. Pierre thought that he might be a little younger than he—perhaps in his late thirties; but he had a serious face, so it was difficult to determine. Modifying this severe look was a large dimple in his chin and gentle brown eyes. As Pierre stood up, Paul came forward with his arm held out for the English custom of shaking hands.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Garneau,”
he said in admirable French. “How glad I am to see you. We’ve been most concerned about your safety. It’s a long and dangerous trip, and what you have done is exceedingly brave.”

Feeling immediately at ease with the man, Pierre responded with a firm handshake, and answered in English, “Monsieur Thibault, to make your acquaintance I also am ‘appy. I ’ope you don’t mind we continue with the French. I am not so—so—how you say—fluent with the English yet.”

“Mais oui, mon ami.
French is fine,” Thibault said, again in Pierre’s language. “Since I was able to talk, my mother insisted I speak her family’s native tongue. It’s a great blessing for me now to be able to help the compatriots of my great grandparents, who also came to this country because of persecution, so long ago. Here, let’s go into the library. I have some legal papers for you to sign.”

He opened the door on the immediate right and escorted Pierre into a room that astounded him. His cousin, Jacques’ house in La Rochelle had also conveyed an ambiance of luxury, but in quite a different way. This had a feeling of English solidity about it—a place of warmth and safety. Dark oak paneling lined the walls and the large brick fireplace had an oak mantel and surround, as well. The carpets, again, were in a red Turkish pattern, with the lush sensation of a deep, expensive pile. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound books lined one entire wall. There was no doubt the goldsmith had made his mark in life.

Monsieur Thibault pointed to a chair in front of a massive oak desk stacked with several piles of paper, while he, himself, took a seat behind it. “So now, Monsieur Garneau, Jacques has told me much about your excellent family, and how you refuse to convert to the Papists. I admire you for that. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy. You’ll be glad to be safe in your own comfortable house?”

“Yes, Monsieur, that we will. We loved our home in France, but our faith was of far more importance. So, of course, we’re happy there is a community here where we can now worship our God in peace.”

“I imagine you’re disappointed Jacques doesn’t feel as you do about the faith. Even so, he has shown great generosity and courage to others, as well. I’m sure he wouldn’t say, but I can tell you, he’s helped many Huguenot refugees. Perhaps our God won’t overlook that fact. Now, I’m sure you’re eager to see this house he’s arranged for you.”

“Yes, we’re all anxious to be settled. It’s well over a month now since we left our farm and we’re tired.”

“Here then, these are the leasehold papers for you ready to sign, and it is yours. The lease is for one year and, if you find it satisfactory, you can purchase it at any time. Jacques also arranged for a minimum of furniture, so you can move right in. Later you and your wife will be able to make some purchases of your own choice. Were you able to bring anything from France?”

“Jacques brought over some of my looms, of course,” Pierre said, as he signed the papers. “They are extremely important for my vocation. And some household items, which meant a great deal to my wife. He left them for us in the warehouse he owns here in London.”

When he had finished signing all the papers, he handed them back to the goldsmith and set the quill back in the ink pot. “Well, Monsieur Thibault, our hired carriage awaits me, so I think we should go directly to the house. I certainly appreciate what you have done for our family, and I know my wife will want to thank you personally.”

Monsieur Thibault’s shrug was entirely French, which rather amused Pierre.

“It is nothing. But where are my manners? Where will you eat tonight? The inns around Spittlefields are all rather too rough to take your young family. You should stay here and have dinner with me.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur, we wouldn’t want to put you out like that. And my wife and children are all rather tired. I’m sure we’ll find something quick.”

“Well, wait a moment then. I’ll see what I can do.”

He left Pierre sitting for about ten minutes, finally reappearing with a large picnic basket full of food as well as a jug of wine.

“Here we are, Monsieur—here at least are a few items for tonight as well as breakfast tomorrow. I would hate for you to starve on your first day in London.”

They both laughed and Pierre spoke. “Well, thank you again. It’s most kind of you. I do hope we will have occasion to see you soon.”

“Yes, for a certainty. In fact, I’m having a small dinner party here one week from this Saturday. I would be most pleased if you would come, and bring your family—the children too—it will be quite informal. My maids can take care of the younger ones for you. There’ll be others of the French community here, and I’m sure they’ll want to make your acquaintance. We are all aware of the magnificent silks you weave. Some of London’s wealthiest patrons are anxious to acquire them. Will you be able to come do you think? Today is Thursday, so it gives you a little time to settle. I’ll have an invitation delivered to your wife as a reminder.”

“I’m sure she will appreciate it very much. Being new in this city, my family will be lonely for a while.”

“Well then, it is arranged. You will join us here, and it will be a celebration of your safe arrival,” said Paul, again shaking his hand.

By the time they reached Spitalfields, they were all exhausted. However, the dwelling on the corner of Fournier and Brick Lane was a welcome surprise to Pierre. Overall, including the attic and the kitchen in the basement, there were ten rooms. Although not comparable to the house in Soho Square, it was large for a townhouse in that locale. It seemed considerably wider than the other homes in the area and, being a corner house, had windows on three sides, which brightened the interior. This was especially essential for the large room on the third floor, where Pierre would do his weaving.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction, “it’s not like the light at home, of course, but I think it will do nicely for awhile. Jean Guy, we shall take a short rest for a week and then we’ll set up the looms. Sooner or later we’ll run out of the money from Jacques, so we need to see if a Frenchman can make a living in this strange country.”

The Garneaus found the party at Monsieur Thibault’s both enjoyable and reassuring. The group, mostly of French Huguenot descendants, were welcoming and cordial.

One of the maids whisked the children, with the exception of Louise and Jean Guy, away to a nursery. Pierre had been wise enough to pack dressy outfits for each of his family in the wine barrels. In France, the Huguenots dressed simply and without embellishment. However, here, it would be important to make a favourable impression from the beginning. He needed people of fashion to see and talk about his silks. In Paul’s stylish Soho House, he knew he would meet such individuals, and he was confident his beautiful women would show his work to an advantage.

Claudine and Louise agreed they didn’t wish to wear wigs, so Pierre hired a maid for the day who washed, brushed, and styled their hair in the latest London fashion. Even young Catherine had hers arranged. Spectacular looking, as they were, they created quite a stir. Louise looked particularly grown up and striking. Her green eyes flecked with gold were shining, and with her golden blonde hair and luminous skin, she stood out as a beauty. Pierre had never seen her with such a glow.

Well, he thought, she’ll be seventeen in November. It’s time to be thinking of a husband. Fortunately, Marc is far away now. He also noted the way Paul Thibault, who he had discovered was a widower, could hardly take his eyes off her. The goldsmith had seemed almost stunned when Pierre introduced her and had stared at her from time to time with a pensive look in his gentle, brown eyes.

Unfortunately, I think he is rather too old for her, Pierre mused. However, I‘m sure we’ll meet some suitable younger men among his friends.

During the evening, the talk drifted to the death of King Charles back in February. Pierre had only heard about it that terrible day in Winchester, and at the time, his heart had dropped at the news. He assumed that Jacques did not know about it. He would have been in the Americas at the time and too busy when he came to England in August. Since Jacques and Pierre had chosen England partly because of King Charles’ promise of sanctuary for Huguenots, it had been a shock to discover that James, a staunch Catholic, now ruled and was regrettably an unknown quantity.

A gentleman by the name of Richard Hoare, whom Paul had introduced to Pierre as a fellow goldsmith-turned-banker, brought up the issue of England’s new king at the dinner table. “I think King James has already gotten himself into much trouble,” he stated. Turning to Pierre, he went on, “He’s been trying to give civic equality to Roman Catholic and Protestant dissenters and got into a quarrel with Parliament over it. To them, it showed favouritism towards the Catholics, and it did him no good, I can tell you.”

“I would say not,” Pierre replied. “I, myself, experienced profound disappointment to learn of his kingship. I’m afraid I don’t know much about how your English parliament works. Do they have much power?”