Silken Threads (23 page)

“Ladies like that could afford to commission
pieces from you.”

“I know. And I’ve been thinking about
showing my sampler and some of my best pieces to the ladies at the
Tower, but...” She shook her head and frowned at her drawing.

“Why don’t you? You’d do a far sight better
than selling the occasional ribbon or scarf out of this shop.”

“It’s...You’ll think it’s silly.”

“No I won’t.”

Joanna gestured toward the sampler. “Have
you picked a border?”

“You can’t change the subject that easily,
but yes, I’ve picked one. The one that looks like knotwork.”

She smiled. “Perfect.”

He felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

“Would you find me the template for that
one?”

Sorting through the templates, he said,
“Your embroidery is worthy of the queen herself. A royal commission
could feed you for years.”

“Well I know it.”

“Then why do you hesitate to show your work
at court?”

She plucked the worn-down bit of charcoal
out of the goose quill and put it away, then took a shiny black
raven quill out of the basket and proceeded to sharpen its point.
“It’s because of the change in my circumstances,” she said without
looking at him, seeming a little embarrassed. “At fourteen I was
presented at court. I met the queen. To return at one-and-twenty as
a tradeswoman...” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t shame me, but
it does. Perhaps I just need a little longer to work up my
courage...or grow so desperate that I don’t have any choice.”

He handed her the template and set the box
back on the floor. “Allowing desperation to take over is rarely a
successful strategy, no matter what your goal.”

Joanna sighed. Opening a jar of ink, she
charged her quill and began tracing over the lines of her charcoal
drawing, quickly but flawlessly. “There’s another problem. The
ladies of the court aren’t going to be content with what I
do
—
plain silk thread on twill and damask. They like
ornaments sewn into their embroidery, and fancy
ones
—
pearls, enamels, jewels set in gold. I don’t have the
money for that sort of thing. Gold thread is just as dear. It’s
made by winding strips of gold by hand around a core of silken
threads. The silkwoman gets more for an ounce of it than I get for
a scarf like this.”

“The queen’s ladies must have gold and
jewels?”

She cast him a doleful glance. “Gold and
jewels are all they know, serjant, all they’ve ever known. These
are the daughters of the most noble families in the kingdom. A
merchant’s wife
—
even an alderman’s wife
—
might be
content with silver thread and spangles, but not these ladies.”

“Spangles?”

“Little metal ornaments
—
they can be
had fairly cheaply, and if they’re applied well, the effect isn’t
too tawdry. There are also little glass beads from Venice that can
be bought at the Friday fair
—
they’re a passable substitute
for precious gems. I’ve used them on some of my girdles.”

“And merchants’ wives find these compromises
acceptable?” Graeham asked, as an idea began to take shape in his
mind.

“They have no choice. Gold and gems are
generally out of their reach. Even if they aspire to look like
nobility
—
and most of them do, it seems
—
their
husbands simply can’t afford it.”

Graeham sat forward, infused with
excitement; this could work. “Have you considered...seeking
commissions from the wives of the more well-to-do merchants here in
West Cheap?”

She studied her completed ink drawing with a
critical eye. “I already do. If they come by the shop and ask for
something special
—
”

“Nay, I mean actively soliciting
them
—
going to their homes with your samples. Most of them
probably have no idea the level of work you’re capable of. If you
came to them in their homes, the way their dressmakers do, and
talked to them, found out what it is they really want, you’d soon
have more commissions than you could handle.”

She plucked the feather duster out of her
basket and swept the charcoal dust from the silk, leaving a clean,
precise ink drawing.

“You wouldn’t have to travel farther than
Milk Street,” he said. “There’s the wife of that money lender with
the evil temper...”

“Lionel Oxwyke’s wife?”

“Aye
—
she could afford your work.”
Graeham strove to keep his tone nonchalant, not wanting to seem too
overeager; she mustn’t suspect that this idea would be of any
benefit to him. “And what about the wife of that guildmaster who
lives behind you? The woman with the head cold.”

“Ada le Fever?”

“Aye.”

“Absolutely not.” Joanna stood and walked to
the rear of the house, down the hall and out the back door.

Graeham muttered an oath and slumped back
against the wall. It would serve his cause well if he could talk
her into visiting Ada le Fever. Afterward he could question her and
possibly get a better idea of the situation in the guildmaster’s
household
—
the nature and severity of Ada’s malady, whether
she’d be capable of travel if he could find a way to get her out of
there. Any information was better than what he’d been able to come
up with by spying through the storeroom window.

Joanna could be very useful to him. She
could be his eyes and ears and legs...if only he could convince her
to seek out Ada le Fever’s patronage. That the scheme might very
well serve Joanna’s purposes as well as Graeham’s was an added
benefit, but he didn’t delude himself that his motives for
proposing it were altruistic. Graeham was consumed with his
mission; if he could use Joanna to implement it, with or without
her knowledge, he would; any advantage to her was entirely
secondary.

When she returned, she was carrying a rag
and a wooden bowl of water with a sea sponge in it, which she set
on the work table before taking her seat. “I’ll do it.”

“You will? You’ll go to see Ada le
Fever?”

“Not her. But I’ll pay a call on Rose
Oxwyke, and perhaps Elizabeth Huxley, the alderman’s
wife
—
she likes her finery. And there are one or two
others. With the rent you’ve paid me, I can buy some silver thread
and spangles and
—
”

“What’s stopping you from going to see Ada
le Fever? Her illness?”

“Her husband.” Rising, she lifted the
embroidery frame from the trestles and turned it over, exposing the
reverse side.

Interesting.
“You don’t care for
him?”

“He stole my livelihood from me just because
I wouldn’t
—
” She cut herself off with a sharp look toward
Graeham.

“Stole your livelihood? How so?”

Joanna squeezed the wet sponge into the
bowl. “I...went to him for a favor once.”

“What kind of favor?”

She chewed on her lip as she rubbed the
sponge over the silk, dampening it. “I wanted to be admitted to the
Mercers’ Guild.”

The pieces were falling into place. “Isn’t
your husband a member of the guild?” he asked, half hoping she
would tell him the truth about her husband if he pressed her,
knowing he shouldn’t want that, that it could only bring
trouble.

Luckily, she had more sense than he did.
“Yes,” she said as she returned the sponge to the bowl and flipped
the frame back over. “He is. I wanted to join also, just
because...because I did. But le Fever, he...he had conditions.”

Of course
—
the lecherous
worm.
“Conditions you refused to meet.”

“I should say so.” Taking her seat, she
extracted a blunt, soft-looking brush from her basket, dipped it in
the ink and blotted it on the rag. With deft strokes she gradually
shaded in the trunk of her orange tree.

Manfrid entered the shopfront through the
open alley window. On seeing Graeham, he leapt onto the chest next
to him and threw himself on his back, displaying his vast white
belly as he gazed imploringly at Graeham.

“Yes?” Graeham said in the low voice the cat
seemed to find reassuring. “And what, precisely, is it that you
want?”

Manfrid stretched luxuriously, throwing his
head back as he writhed in delicious expectation against
Graeham.

“What’s that? I don’t quite follow you.”

“Stop teasing the poor creature,” Joanna
chuckled, “and pet his stomach.”

“I don’t want him to start thinking I’m at
his beck and call.”

“Aren’t you? ‘Tis a wonderment how he’s
taken to you.” With a mischievous smile she added, “And how you’ve
taken to him. I wouldn’t have thought it would be worth your
trouble to befriend such a...useless creature.”

Graeham held his hand poised above Manfrid’s
enormous stomach, engendering a purr of astonishing volume and
resonance. “Sounds like cartwheels on gravel.”

Joanna grinned as she added whisper-soft
shadows to the tree and its fruit, making it stand out in
astonishing relief from the surface of the taut silk.

“‘Tis a miracle, how you do that.” Graeham
stroked the downy fur of the cat’s underbelly; he squirmed in
hedonistic abandon.

“All it takes is a good squirrel brush and a
steady hand.”

“You shouldn’t dismiss your talent so
cavalierly. You’re a remarkable woman
—
an extraordinary
woman.”

She made no response to this, seemingly
absorbed in her work, but spots of pink bloomed on her cheeks.
Graeham kicked himself; he should be finessing her into visiting
Ada le Fever, not flattering her like some lovesick suitor.

Changing tack, he said, “You’re not just
talented, you’re very strong, especially for a
woman
—
independent, self-reliant.”

“I’ve had to be.”

As have I
. Perhaps that was what drew
him to her, the shared sense of isolation, of having no one to rely
on but oneself. For all the advantages of being unfettered by
others, it was a lonely way to live. He wondered if she ever lay
awake at night, listening for sounds from below.

“You
are
strong.” He lightly
scratched Manfrid’s throat. “Which is why it surprises me so for
you to cower before this Rolf le Fever as you do.”

“
Cower.”
She whipped around to face
him, her eyes glittering with outrage, as he knew they would; they
were really much alike, he and Joanna Chapman.

“Yes, cower. This man intimidates you so
thoroughly that you won’t even attempt to approach his wife. He’s
defeated you without even trying, while you just sit back and let
it happen.”

She turned back to her work, but her brush
was unmoving in her hand. For a moment Graeham feared that she
might ask him where, precisely, his interest in these matters lay.
She might have, if she’d had an inkling of his ulterior motive for
wanting her to visit the le Fever house
—
but as far as she
knew, Graeham had never heard of Rolf le Fever before fate landed
him in her storeroom while he was en route to visit kinsmen in
Oxfordshire.

Joanna would assume Graeham’s only interest
lay in helping her. An uneasy little rivulet of contrition wormed
its way into his belly.

“You’re right,” she said soberly. “He’s
coercing me without even knowing it, and I’m letting him do it.
It’s just that I swore I’d never have anything more to do with that
man. He just wanted to...to use me, the same as every other man
I’ve ever known. Except for Hugh.” With a tentative glance in his
direction, she added, somewhat shyly, “And you, of course.”

The little worm of contrition grew into a
hissing serpent, squeezing him until he felt sick with guilt. But
all he said was, “Thank you, mistress. I appreciate that.”

* * *

Graeham watched through the rear window the
following afternoon as Joanna knocked on the back door of Rolf le
Fever’s house, lugging a leather bag containing her sampler and her
best pieces
—
a beaded girdle, an elaborate scarf and a
fringed purse.

The door was opened by the shiny-faced
kitchen wench, wiping her hands on her apron. She nodded as Joanna
spoke to her, then turned and retreated into the house. A minute
later, Graeham saw the kitchen wench through the window of the
second-floor sitting room, where Rolf le Fever was meeting with
some men. He snapped at her; she flinched as she spoke, pointing
outside.

The guildmaster crossed to the window and
leaned out, his eyebrows quirking when he saw Joanna. He
disappeared from view. A few moments later he appeared at the back
door.

Leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed,
he spoke to Joanna while slowly surveying her up and down.
Graeham’s hands clenched into fists. Suddenly it seemed like very
poor judgment on his part to have urged her to go there.

Joanna had her back to Graeham, but from le
Fever’s expression of weary forbearance, it was clear that she was
entreating him to let her pay a call on his wife. He shook his head
resolutely and backed up, his hand on the door.

She took a step forward and said something
else, pointing to her bag.

Le Fever held a hand up, his attitude irate,
his voice so loud now that Graeham could make out a word here and
there. From what he gathered, the guildmaster was telling Joanna
his wife had no use for her “cheap frippery,” and to leave or he’d
have her bodily ejected from his property.

He slammed the door shut.

Joanna stood there for a moment, then turned
and started back through the stable yard. As she passed through the
opening in the stone wall, she paused, her hand on the iron gate,
her countenance meditative. Presently her expression lightened; she
smiled slowly.

Graeham assumed she would cross the croft
and enter the house through the back door. Instead, she headed for
the alley. Wondering what she had in mind, he grabbed his crutch,
struggled to his feet and unlatched the alley
window
—
having shuttered it after nones, as usual, pending
Olive’s daily trek to the le Fever house
—
but he was too
late. Joanna had already passed.