Written on Silk (4 page)

Rachelle felt a nagging uneasiness as she thought again how she was here at the Château de Silk without ever having received an official release from the Queen Mother. Therefore, her duty to the princesse as a lady-in-waiting officially remained.

Marquis Fabien had assured her before he left that he would send a lettre to Margo, as he called the princesse, asking for Rachelle’s release from Court. He had access because he was born of the royal blood from the House of
Bourbon
, and after the death of his father, was brought to Court at twelve years of age to mingle with the royal children and others in the nobility, including the Reinette Mary Stuart of Scotland. Margo was a special amie of his.

Still, Rachelle lived in uncertainty, as did her mère, Madame Clair, who quietly worried that the Queen Mother would see Rachelle’s absence from Court with a more shadowy perspective than the amorous, lighthearted princesse.

THE NEXT MORNING
RACHELLE
seated herself on a lavender and gold tapestry-covered chair at breakfast with family members and Sir James Hudson. She had dressed in Sunday silk and was sipping from a tall Viennese crystal glass of sweetened amber tea. The pink and white plate, scalloped with gold, held warm cakes dipped in whipped egg and fried in sweet butter. The silverware sparkled in the pleasant sunlight filtering in through the dining-
salle
windows.

Her father’s cousin, Bertrand Macquinet, a pasteur who had recently celebrated his sixtieth birthday, was seated at the head of the large table taking the honored position usually reserved for Rachelle’s absent father, Arnaut.

Bertrand’s face was angular like Calvin’s, his dark eyes sharp and bright. He was a man of bonne cheer and beloved by the family. Rachelle described Bertrand’s mustache as an upside-down V that grew into his short, pointed beard. His wide-brimmed black hat, used when he went to the teaching stand as the pasteur, sat on the hall table, dusted of any stray speck, for he was to teach this Sunday morning at the local assembly. His cherished Bible in the French language was cautiously out of sight.

The young Sir James Hudson appeared to be studying Cousin Bertrand with a sharp but friendly eye. “Monsieur, I understand your knowledge as a biblical scholar was received at Geneva under John Calvin.”

“An awesome man, I assure you, James. I oft felt that I should enter his presence on tiptoe, but he would have none of that. It was he who arranged for me to teach at the theological university there, which God permitted me to do for more than a decade.”

Rachelle sipped her tea and remained silent, but Idelette seemed to want to convince James Hudson that their cousin Bertrand was a great man of God. Was she attracted to James? Rachelle concealed a smile.

“Three years ago Bertrand was burdened to strengthen the Huguenots at Spitalfields. They had gone through so much persecution to get there that he sailed to London to hold
prêches
.”

“And now you have established a French church,” James said, smiling. He looked at Idelette, then back to Cousin Bertrand. “I can see well enough, sir, how your young cousines are pleased with your ser vice to God, as well they should be. How did you first meet Monsieur Calvin, if I may ask?”

Bertrand’s hawkish face took on a sober cast as though his mind traveled far in the past.

“That I shall never forget, young James. Monsieur Calvin was forced to flee France to save himself from the wrath of King Francis I and the fiery stake. He journeyed to Strasbourg, where I too had fled. Calvin introduced me to the great minister LeFevre d’Etaples, translator of the first French Bible. I was most taken with both of them. Eventually Calvin went to Geneva, and I was given the privilege of attending him. Then, with the help of Reformers like Beza, Calvin established the grand Reformational center of Europe.”

Bertrand had come to the Château de Silk from Geneva, where he had reported to Calvin on the work at Spitalfields. He had arrived bringing Madame Clair home to the château, leaving Arnaut in Geneva to conclude the work begun months earlier.

The extent of the work was not discussed, and Rachelle had been wise enough not to ask. She understood the activity concerned the printing of Bibles in the French, Dutch, and German languages, to be secretly distributed in Europe. Cousin Bertrand was even now waiting for a shipment of Dutch Bibles that were somehow to be smuggled into Holland, a most dangerous endeavor.

Rachelle looked across the table fondly at Cousin Bertrand. She had always been drawn toward his wise and grandfatherly counsel and admired his scholarly handling of the Scriptures. With her father away and her soul tender from Amboise and the death of Comte Sebastien, her frequent talks with Pasteur Bertrand had strengthened her in the midst of so much uncertainty.

“Silk weavers, couturiers, and grisettes — the Huguenots are bringing the finest skills of their craft to London,” Hudson said cheerfully. “And the Dutch Protestants? They are experts in lace, thread, button-making, and all manner of delicate embroidery. I tell you Mesdames, Monsieur, England is the recipient of God’s grace.”

Rachelle could not restrain her growing frustration. “It is all very well and good for your England, Monsieur Hudson. And I am thankful England opens her doors to us. But it is France I think of. France foolishly robs herself. One would think the king would realize the Huguenots, the middle class of this country, are the backbone of France! Without us, there is naught but nobles on one end and uneducated poor on the other.”

“Quite the fact, mademoiselle, yes, quite . . . and sad for your country, of course.”

“Unfortunately,” Idelette said, “those of the religion have small choice except to escape with their lives and the lives of their children.”

“There is a far greater loss to France than silk and trade secrets,”Bertrand said. “It is the removal of God’s lampstand in France. With every Huguenot family who leaves, with every burning, every arrest and torture, the light of our witness departs. I fear darkness will reign if we as a nation continue to harden our hearts against the light of truth.” He looked at each of them. “France is in danger of forfeiting the greatest of opportunities from God — that of leading the way in Europe as God’s torchbearer. It appears to me that the
honneur
may pass to England.”

Rachelle, highly patriotic, felt an unhappy twinge. She had naught against England, but her love was with France. She feared Cousin Bertrand was right.

“England has also known her years of burnings and delusions,”James Hudson said. “Until Elizabeth came to the throne, we had her sister, Queen Mary. I think we all know that history has recorded many stalwart saints burned at Smithfield through her. Bloody Mary, we call her. Many leaders of the Reformation like Cranmer, Ridley, and Tyndale — all burned at the stake as heretics.”

“Ah, but England is now embracing the light,” Cousin Bertrand said. “England welcomes the persecuted for His name’s sake with goodwill and a haven of safety. The Lord takes notice of this and the many changes under your present queen.”

Whereas the Queen Mother
, thought Rachelle,
uses persecution to
maintain her throne and appease Spain.

Cousin Bertrand seemed to sense the heaviness at the table and smiled. “But! The Château de Silk has not rejected the light. We are all witnesses for God though we stand alone,” he said, his tone encouraging. “And the silk is a gift from our heavenly Father. For without the miracle of His silkworm, there would be no Dushane-Macquinet silk, no name of renown for the cloth. You
chère
mademoiselles know that this blessing is to be used not for our own ease, but as an open door. And so it is. Arnaut has financed much of the work in Geneva and France, and now in Spitalfields and Holland. The Bibles, the special printing of Scripture portions and books, all in fine leather and gilt edge, have been spread far and near because of our Dushane-Macquinet silk. And this will continue for as long as our good God preserves us. I will be eloquent and say that our witness, our trials and persecutions, are all written on silk!”

Rachelle’s heart sounded a song of thanksgiving, knowing that eternal good was upheld by her needle and scissors, and even the feeding of mulberry leaves to the silkworms would assist her calling.

“To our God goes all the honneur,” Madame Clair said. “Château de Silk prospers in order to serve our Lord’s work as well as our own. And, Monsieur Hudson, although my husband is not here to celebrate the beginning of the Dushane-Macquinet-Hudson alliance, I can tell you that our desire is singular. We will support the weavers’ guilds in Spitalfields by making certain they have silk.”

“Silk and our own designs so they can cut and sew, ma mère.” Rachelle pleaded again for her special dream. “Let there be gowns sewn in Spitalfields and displayed in a fine shop on Regent Street. Even gowns of many sizes so that they can be purchased right there by passersby. Such a dress shop with our name would be unique and successful, I am sure of it.”

“We share the same mind-set, Mademoiselle,” Sir James Hudson said. “’Tis a novel persuasion of great interest to the Hudson family as well.”

Rachelle saw a tiny flame dance in his eyes.

He turned to Madame Clair. “Indeed, ’tis our hope you and your daughters will come to London to oversee the opening of the first dress shop. Perhaps when the gown for Her Majesty is finished? ’Tis only fitting you attend Court when the gown is presented to our queen. Hudson Manor is always open for your stay with us. My father would be delighted to meet the Daughters of Silk and to discuss all this business to everyone’s complete satisfaction.”

Rachelle, however, noticed a subdued response from Madame Clair. It was becoming obvious she did not want her daughters leaving France. Her heart was bound with the tragic happenings surrounding her family and the talk of a civil war between the Catholic forces and the Huguenots. No one could know how such fighting would affect the Château which had been a family enterprise in Lyon from the time of Great-Grandmère Antoinette Dushane.

Rachelle nurtured her disappointment. A glance at her sister showed that Idelette was also disappointed. She had mentioned to Rachelle earlier that morning that Hudson had spoken to her of the hope that they would consider going to London to strengthen the alliance with the Hudson family in Spitalfields. He did not expect all three Macquinet women to make the journey, but he had suggested the possibility to Madame Clair.

But Madame Clair merely smiled graciously at him across the table and remained noncommittal.

Rachelle met Idelette’s gaze.
We will not give up yet.

A short time later, with breakfast finished, Cousin Bertrand retrieved his French Bible, tapped it with his finger, and said quietly, as if to himself, “Remember those who have gone before us who have endured great afflictions for His name’s sake.” Then with his Bible concealed inside his preaching satchel, he left the château to teach that morning’s message at the local Huguenot gathering.

Idelette and Avril left soon after under the friendly escort of Sir James Hudson. As they went out the front door, Avril called to Rachelle that she would keep a place for her on the bench.

Madame Clair’s tired face was due to more than worry over her recently widowed daughter Madeleine and the baby. Rachelle knew she had stayed up until after midnight to finish a special silk scarf for Madame Hershey, who would attend the worship meeting, and that she had been delayed in finishing the project due to Hudson’s arrival.

As Madame Clair went to the atelier, Rachelle followed and stopped at the doorway, watching as she reached up to the shelf and brought down the scarf. She glanced over her shoulder.

“Do go on without me,
ma petite
. I shall be a few minutes late. I must finish the ribbon edging. Madame Hershey will be disappointed if she cannot bring this gift with her when she leaves worship to visit her daughter. Her coach leaves for Paris soon after the meeting.”

“Ma mère? About Sir James Hudson and going to London . . .”

“Not now, Rachelle. I know what your wish is, but now is not the time to discuss the matter. We will wait until your père is home from Geneva. Hurry now, or you shall be late to sing the psalter.”

Rachelle silenced her defeated sigh. She felt as though Madame Clair still thought of her as a
demoiselle
. She was grown now, ripe for
amour
and marriage — at least Marquis Fabien de Vendôme thought her a woman. He had not spoken of marriage, true, but . . .