‘It must be difficult to translate a drawing onto paper, no?’ she asked.
‘It is at first,’ he admitted. ‘But here, let me show you on this twill …’
Mary left the weaver’s loft that day with her head spinning, as visions of how she might transform her naturalistic sketches of plants and wildflowers into patterns that might take the fancy of grand lords and ladies – perhaps even royalty, she allowed herself a fanciful dream – danced in her mind.
She spent her waking hours sketching and painting until her eyes strained, her fingers were numb and the candle stubs burned to pools of wax. She painted primrose and crocus, and then, as the weather grew warmer, cornflowers, cow parsley and foxgloves. She copied these onto fabrics, embroidering them until they appeared almost to possess three dimensions. From these she attempted to draw the pattern on the point paper as Guy had shown her, which the weaver would use as a template. Her first attempts ended in frustration, as she struggled to transfer her curling designs onto a grid. But she persisted, finally creating several that she thought might work.
‘They are quite fresh and lively,’ said Frances as Mary showed the portfolio of designs to her. ‘Why, I would be delighted to wear a gown woven with such delicate and pretty flowers.’
‘But they are so very different from the work of the other pattern-drawers,’ Mary said doubtfully, wondering suddenly if she might have been wasting her time with such common plants. Would they not appear ridiculous on sumptuous silk, as a damask relief or picked out in silver and gold threads? The flowers of the verge and byway that were dismissed as weeds? The fashion was for showier blooms, roses, lilies, camellias and the like. No, she reminded herself sternly, her wayside gleanings held a beauty of their own. She would persuade the weavers to use her designs. ‘My work will stand out as original,’ she declared, a note of determination in her voice.
‘I certainly hope you are right,’ said Frances, a worried expression not leaving her face. ‘For we will be down to our last few pounds ’ere long.’
Mary refused to let worry about money sway her from her purpose: to assemble a portfolio of sketches and patterns that might be woven onto silk to grace the backs of the finest ladies and gentlemen of the city.
It was only in the early hours of the morning that doubt weaselled its way into her churning mind and kept her awake until the first birds began their melodic twittering. Who was she, a spinster educated in a parsonage, to imagine she could force her way into a man’s world, let alone succeed at it?
SIX
Now
At first, Thea couldn’t remember where she was. Disorientated, she reached for her glasses and staggered from her bed, pushed aside the curtains and peered onto the street far below. It curved gently downhill, and in the grey morning light she could see the outline of the roofs of the college buildings at its far reaches, and beyond that, the green of the playing fields. Several trucks rumbled heavily along the other side of the road, crunching their gears as they descended towards the belly of the town.
The night before, after the lights had cut out, she had been on the point of feeling her way downstairs when they flickered on and off again, finally staying on. Putting it down to the dodgy electrics of an old house, and the spine-tingling screech to a cat shut indoors, she had nevertheless been unable to quell a prickle of apprehension as she settled down for the night. Despite her exhaustion, it had taken her longer than usual to fall asleep.
She left the window and glanced at her watch: still plenty of time before her meeting with the headmaster. She reached for her phone and pressed the button to turn it on but the screen remained resolutely black. She checked the charger and the lead. Nothing. Perhaps the socket didn’t work, or there’d been another power cut in the night? She silently cursed. She had wanted to check her emails; make sure she didn’t miss anything ahead of her first day. She was on her way to the shower when a crumpled shape in the corner of the room caught her eye. Her jacket. She could have sworn she’d hung it up on the back of the door. She must have been more tired yesterday than she realised. Next to it was a chocolate wrapper on the floor – she hadn’t managed to land that in the basket – and she knew that her first priority, after a shower, was breakfast, preferably not in the company of Dame Hicks. She needed to fortify herself before facing the inscrutable woman again.
The kitchen was large, clinically clean and, happily, empty. A clock on the wall showed the time at a quarter to twelve. Thea didn’t need to check her watch again to know that it had stopped quite some time ago.
She walked to the rear where a doorway led to a short passage and then a back door. Unbolting it, she saw a long, narrow garden bound by high flint walls. In the centre was a complicated-looking flowerbed with sections marked out in old bricks and pruned low hedging: a knot garden or parterre perhaps. Beyond that was a small fishpond. She stared at the flowerbed, her brain taking a few seconds to catch up with her eyes until she recognised the shape it made and where she had seen it before. It was a pentacle, the same as on one of the keys Mr Battle had given her. The wind scattered the last of the leaves on the damp grass and she shivered in the cold morning air.
Back in the warmth of the kitchen she rummaged in drawers and cupboards, not finding batteries for the stopped clock, but discovering tea, bread, jam and assorted boxes of cereal. A brace of large refrigerators was generously stocked with, among other things, butter, milk, cheese and vegetables. Cupboards yielded cups and plates, and cutlery was in a long drawer to one side of the room. Cheering up at the prospect of food and a cuppa, Thea toasted bread and boiled a kettle for tea before settling herself at the end of one of two long oak tables in the dining room, basking in the bright sunshine that now streamed through the two bay windows.
She had no sooner taken a bite of her toast when the door opened and the Dame appeared. The woman looked slightly less formidable in the daylight and was dressed in a similar blouse to the previous night, but this time with a pattern of red berries. Thea was wearing a pair of grey tailored trousers and a simply cut shirt in anticipation of her first day in the job, had even added an unaccustomed swipe of lipstick, but she was sombrely dressed compared to the Dame. She put her toast down, hastily swallowed, and wished her good morning, resolving not to be intimidated.
As moments of silence stretched between them, Thea noticed an unusual round pewter brooch affixed to the Dame’s collar. It featured an arrow-shaped design, not unlike one of the keys Thea had been given. Intrigued, she wanted to ask about its origin, for it looked antique, but held her tongue. The older woman’s countenance did not invite personal questions, though when she spoke her tone was a few degrees less frigid.
‘I trust you are rested.’
‘Yes. Thank you. Though little could have disturbed me – I slept like the dead.’
The Dame looked at her sharply. ‘Perhaps we might find some time before the girls arrive to discuss the running of the house and where our responsibilities lie?’
Thea nodded. ‘How about eleven?’
‘Very good. I have to supervise the delivery of the remaining provisions, and the kitchen staff are due to arrive after lunch, but that will give us enough time to run over everything.’ She left Thea to her breakfast.