receives, any help from the servants. They loiter inside, pretending to wax the dining table while looking out at their mistress through Samuel Beckwith’s extravagant windows (so fashionable still, never mind the draught, and the light that shows every smudge on the mahogany, and the whole of Spitalfields seeing your business). And why shouldn’t they?One can’t surround oneself with glass and then complain of being looked at.
When Theresine re-enters the house, she finds yesterday’s boots uncleaned and the brass in the dining room unpolished. She pretends she hasn’t noticed. Theresine is shy of speaking to the servants, lank Thomas and swarthy Beth, afraid of the glances that pass between them as she mangles her English words. The serving man’s bulbous eyes alarm her, as do the housemaid’s hairy eyebrows, which meet above her nose, and look like a fat black caterpillar wriggling on her forehead.
Theresine distrusts their silence, followed as it often is by sniggering in the kitchen. The housemaid has a laugh so sharp it pierces every floor of the house, reaching even into the attic, where it works its mischief into the weavers’ songs.
Theresine, therefore, says nothing. No. She waits, and tells her husband. Their ill-favoured household and its godless ways don’t worry Guillaume. He’s good at dealing with the English.
Guillaume’s own footwear is always cleaned to his satisfaction. Still, he would almost certainly speak to Thomas about the neglect of his wife’s, were he listening to her, instead of watching the brush move through her hair and thinking about the falling price of mantua in Antwerp.
But he wouldn’t scold Beth. A man shouldn’t interfere in the business of women. And to be fair — Guillaume wishes, always, to be fair — his wife is in London now, and must adapt to its standards of housekeeping, and the impertinence of its servants. He himself finds Beth a good enough sort of girl, attentive and quick, always there at his elbow, almost before she is called. The dining room’s greening sconces have quite escaped him. But then, Guillaume has a lot on his mind.
The very next morning, for instance, just before half-past ten, he receives a second visit from Monsieur LeBlanc. LeBlanc’s card, carried up by Beth on a silver salver, declares that gentleman to be a wool merchant of Bruges. If Guillaume’s hand flutters, just a little, as he reads it, it is because he knows that his caller is in fact Marc-Antoine d’Etevenaux, the agent of an infamous Swiss banker.
D’Etevenaux’s departure, some hours later, provides a degree of relief to his host. But still, Guillaume is left in no mood for lunch. Neither can he concentrate on Jean-Pierre’s designs for the spring silks. He withdraws to his closet, orders Armagnac, and silence.
Poor Guillaume. The brandy only curdles with his anguish. Such a choice! What is a good Calvinist to do?
He meant what he said to d’Etevenaux, two Sundays ago, when he still thought him Jean LeBlanc. Guillaume would do anything to ease the sufferings of his co-religionists in France — sufferings of which he was well aware before d’Etevenaux’s spirited descriptions.
The pile of letters on his desk bears witness to the many relatives Guillaume has left behind him, as far-flung as they are impecunious. Indeed, his own second cousin is among those women still chained in the
Tour de Constance
, and the husband of a friend of his niece was sent to the slave galleys just last month. The very thought of such faithful, tortured souls brings tears to Guillaume’s eyes.
And now here he is, with the power to help them in his hands. On the face of it, the price is not even high. All that is required of him is a small investment, perfectly safe, and returning eight per cent. Just like the Bank of England. Except that the bank which the Swiss propose to start is new, and its client is the King of France.
A monarch whose heart, on receipt of the loan of his
When Theresine re-enters the house, she finds yesterday’s boots uncleaned and the brass in the dining room unpolished. She pretends she hasn’t noticed. Theresine is shy of speaking to the servants, lank Thomas and swarthy Beth, afraid of the glances that pass between them as she mangles her English words. The serving man’s bulbous eyes alarm her, as do the housemaid’s hairy eyebrows, which meet above her nose, and look like a fat black caterpillar wriggling on her forehead.
Theresine distrusts their silence, followed as it often is by sniggering in the kitchen. The housemaid has a laugh so sharp it pierces every floor of the house, reaching even into the attic, where it works its mischief into the weavers’ songs.
Theresine, therefore, says nothing. No. She waits, and tells her husband. Their ill-favoured household and its godless ways don’t worry Guillaume. He’s good at dealing with the English.
Guillaume’s own footwear is always cleaned to his satisfaction. Still, he would almost certainly speak to Thomas about the neglect of his wife’s, were he listening to her, instead of watching the brush move through her hair and thinking about the falling price of mantua in Antwerp.
But he wouldn’t scold Beth. A man shouldn’t interfere in the business of women. And to be fair — Guillaume wishes, always, to be fair — his wife is in London now, and must adapt to its standards of housekeeping, and the impertinence of its servants. He himself finds Beth a good enough sort of girl, attentive and quick, always there at his elbow, almost before she is called. The dining room’s greening sconces have quite escaped him. But then, Guillaume has a lot on his mind.
The very next morning, for instance, just before half-past ten, he receives a second visit from Monsieur LeBlanc. LeBlanc’s card, carried up by Beth on a silver salver, declares that gentleman to be a wool merchant of Bruges. If Guillaume’s hand flutters, just a little, as he reads it, it is because he knows that his caller is in fact Marc-Antoine d’Etevenaux, the agent of an infamous Swiss banker.
D’Etevenaux’s departure, some hours later, provides a degree of relief to his host. But still, Guillaume is left in no mood for lunch. Neither can he concentrate on Jean-Pierre’s designs for the spring silks. He withdraws to his closet, orders Armagnac, and silence.
Poor Guillaume. The brandy only curdles with his anguish. Such a choice! What is a good Calvinist to do?
He meant what he said to d’Etevenaux, two Sundays ago, when he still thought him Jean LeBlanc. Guillaume would do anything to ease the sufferings of his co-religionists in France — sufferings of which he was well aware before d’Etevenaux’s spirited descriptions.
The pile of letters on his desk bears witness to the many relatives Guillaume has left behind him, as far-flung as they are impecunious. Indeed, his own second cousin is among those women still chained in the
Tour de Constance
, and the husband of a friend of his niece was sent to the slave galleys just last month. The very thought of such faithful, tortured souls brings tears to Guillaume’s eyes.
And now here he is, with the power to help them in his hands. On the face of it, the price is not even high. All that is required of him is a small investment, perfectly safe, and returning eight per cent. Just like the Bank of England. Except that the bank which the Swiss propose to start is new, and its client is the King of France.
A monarch whose heart, on receipt of the loan of his
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