The Ribbon Weaver

Chapter Nineteen



When the carriage had dropped them off at the station, they then caught a train to Dover, and the Forresters watched Amy with amusement. She was so excited that she could scarcely sit still. Amy’s first sight of the docks was nothing at all as she had expected it to be. The smell of rotting fish hung heavy on the air and rats scurried fearlessly here and there. Women whom Molly would have termed as ‘blowsy’ stood here and there in low-cut dresses, trying to get the attention of any matelot who happened to pass them by.

Averting her eyes from them, Amy turned her attention to the ships that were docked, and again her eyes stretched in amazement. They were so much bigger than she had pictured them, and a ripple of apprehension passed through her. How could anything so bulky and heavy ever stay afloat?

Burly seamen with ruddy faces were dragging huge trunks up the gangplank, and as one of them caught Amy looking at him he winked at her cheekily, causing her to blush with embarrassment. Overhead, seagulls dipped and dived as they searched the quay for morsels of food.

It was already late afternoon and Mr Forrester had booked them all a night passage for the twelve-hour crossing to Calais. Taking her elbow he led her towards one of the ships that towered over them and she saw the name of it – the Dolphin – painted crudely on its side. Amy glanced down at the water slapping against the quay. In the books she had looked at with Toby, the sea had always been a beautiful clear blue, but here it was a murky brown colour with litter floating upon it.

Mr Forrester assisted his wife and Amy up the gangplank as Amy studiously avoided looking at the sailors who were scurrying around, and once aboard she was shown down numerous flights of metal steps to her cabin. It was very small, boasting little more than a narrow bed, a washstand and a small porthole. Even so she was relieved to find that it was clean and comfortable. Mr and Mrs Forrester had accompanied her to make sure that she had everything she needed, but now they excused themselves and went off in search of their own cabin to have a rest.

Amy gave the cabin boy who had carried her trunk for her a generous tip, and once she was alone she crossed to the porthole and peered out. There was very little to see except the grimy side of the dock, and eager to explore now she hastily turned about and, lifting her skirts, made her way back through the bowels of the ship and climbed back up the many metal stairs, the heels on her small leather buttoned boots making a clanging noise as she went. Once she reached the deck she made straight for the rail, drawing many admiring glances from sailors and passengers alike, but she was so excited that she didn’t even notice them as she moved through the people who were milling about.

Eventually the heavy gangplank was pulled aboard and she watched as the sailors winched a great anchor from the seabed. Then, with a sickening jolt, the ship shuddered and began to pull away from the port. Slowly the white cliffs dropped away into the distance and the lights on the quay became mere specks that resembled flickering fireflies along the shoreline. The enormous craft began to rise and fall with the swell of the waves, and that was when Amy first began to feel unwell. The further the ship got out to sea the more it swayed, and by the time there was nothing but ocean to see, Amy felt as if her legs no longer belonged to her. The contents of her last meal seemed to be rising and falling in time with the ship and she was still clutching the rails as if her very life depended upon it when Mr Forrester found her there some time later.

Instantly concerned when he saw her pale face he asked, ‘Are you feeling unwell, my dear?’

Amy had no need to answer him; her face told its own story. She looked almost green in the fading light and suddenly unable to hold it back a second longer, she leaned across the rail and began to vomit in a most unladylike manner.

‘Oh, dear me,’ Mr Forrester fussed as she clung limply to the rails. As soon as he was able he escorted her back to her cabin personally then hurried away to fetch the ship’s doctor, who told him in no uncertain terms that there was nothing to be done.

‘The young lady is suffering from a severe bout of sea-sickness,’ he informed him flatly then turning on his heel he left the cabin.

Samuel and Josephine eventually left her in the care of one of the cabin crew with a large bowl at hand, and by the time the ship arrived in Calais early the next morning, Amy was convinced that she was dying.

Mr Forrester helped her from the ship on unsteady legs, and as soon as they were ashore, Amy thanked God that she was back on solid ground. Josephine too had been very queasy.

‘Perhaps we should delay the next stage of our journey until you are both feeling better?’ Samuel suggested thoughtfully. ‘We could always book into an hotel and continue tomorrow.’

After the ship the long coach ride to Paris that lay ahead of them seemed as nothing, and both women were determined to go on. Mr Forrester was silently impressed with their courage, especially Amy’s. As he had discovered, Amy might not be very big in stature but what she lacked in size she more than made up for with spirit. And so they boarded the coach and continued with their journey.

After three hours the coach stopped at a quaint coaching inn for refreshments. Amy refused food – her stomach rebelled at the very thought of it – but she did drink two glasses of lemonade made with freshly squeezed lemons, and by the time they resumed the journey she was beginning to feel slightly better. As they passed the French fields and villages, Amy stared from the carriage window with interest. Dotted here and there were enormous fields in which French peasants were busy toiling. They waved gaily in greeting as the carriage rumbled past on the uneven roads, and beginning to enjoy herself again, Amy waved back.

Set up in the hills were the châteaux of the wealthy. With their turrets and towers and the sunshine reflecting off their windows, they reminded Amy a little of Forrester’s Folly and she pointed them out to Mr Forrester, who smiled indulgently.

It was pleasant rolling along with the spring sunshine pouring in on them. Amy had not slept a wink the night before on the ship and now the warmth of the sun and the gentle rolling of the carriage lulled her off to sleep.

The next thing she knew, Mr Forrester was shaking her arm and as she started awake she realised with a little shock that they had stopped.

‘Come along, Sleepyhead. We’re here,’ he told her.

Amy gaped as she straightened her bonnet. ‘What … you mean we’re in Paris?’

‘We most certainly are. This is our hotel.’

‘But why didn’t you wake me?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Judging from the snores that were bouncing around the coach I think I might have had quite a job trying that. And anyway, you were worn out and we thought the rest would do you good.’

Peering from the window, Amy saw that they had drawn up outside a palatial building called the Hôtel Meurice. Beneath the colonnades was a doorman in scarlet and gold livery, his highly polished brass buttons reflecting the lights in the Tuileries Gardens.

As Mr Forrester climbed from the carriage, the man came to unload the luggage.

He said something in French and Amy noticed that when Mr Forrester answered him in the same language he sounded almost as French as he did. He then handed him a coin and bowing deeply, the doorman thanked him, ‘Merci, monsieur.’

Within minutes Amy had been shown to a luxurious suite of rooms that was to be hers for the duration of their visit. The young maid who escorted her there could speak nothing but French, and as Amy could only speak her own native tongue, conversation between the two of them consisted mainly of sign language and smiles.

When her luggage had been delivered and she was alone at last, Amy yawned and stretched, too tired for now to even explore her rooms. After taking off her suit she crawled into an enormous mahogany bed in her undergarments and there she slept soundly until the following morning.

Once she was up and dressed, yet another young maid showed her down to breakfast, and she found Mr Forrester waiting for her in the dining room. He was seated at a table in the window but the minute he saw her he stood up and drew out a chair for her. ‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re certainly looking better this morning, my dear,’ he told her. ‘I trust you slept well?’

‘Like a log,’ Amy grinned as she joined him.

She was feeling so much better, in fact, that she tucked into a hearty breakfast that would have satisfied someone double her size. There were hot croissants and baguettes served with butter and various jams, and a huge steaming pot of coffee. Amy enjoyed every bit of it.

Between mouthfuls, Mr Forrester told her of the plans for the day and she listened intently.

‘Monsieur Laroque will be sending a carriage for us at ten o’clock and we will be meeting him at one of his largest fashion houses. I must say I’m looking forward to it tremendously. It might give us some ideas for the shops back in London. My wife will be resting but we will see her later on.’

Amy nodded and at ten o’clock sharp she was waiting in the foyer, looking as smart as a new pin, with Mr Forrester.

Monsieur Laroque’s stylish carriage arrived promptly on time and as it rattled down the rue de Rivoli, round the Place de la Concorde and up the Champs Elysées towards the Arc de Triomphe, Amy gazed in awe from the window. Dotted here and there were colourful little cafés and bistros with tables and chairs standing outside on the pavements. Even at such an early hour of the morning, Amy was fascinated to see that people were already seated at them, sipping at glasses of wine.

‘Isn’t it a little early in the day to be drinking wine?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you’ll find that the French drink wine like we English drink tea,’ Mr Forrester chuckled, and Amy wondered what her gran would have made of it all.

Ladies and gentlemen, all dressed in smart attire, were streaming up and down the busy pavements, and horses and carriages filled the streets.

They eventually drew to a halt before what appeared to be a very grand shop in a busy part of the city. Above the door was a large sign with LAROQUE emblazoned on it in large gold letters, and on either side of the door were two enormous windows displaying gowns of all shades and colours. Amy was suitably impressed and suddenly more than a little nervous.

After climbing down from the coach, Mr Forrester took her elbow reassuringly and together they entered the shop. They found themselves in a small but luxuriously decorated foyer. Two women in identical day dresses were standing on either side of the door and the elder of the two immediately approached them.

‘Monsieur Forrester?’ she enquired in a heavy French accent.

He took off his hat and inclined his head politely. ‘Oui, madame.’

She beckoned them to follow her through a door concealed by a heavy velvet drape and into a small hallway. In comparison to the room they had just left the hallway was stark but spotlessly clean, and smiling at them pleasantly, their guide then took them up a metal staircase. They soon found themselves on a long landing. Rooms led off either side of it: Amy peeped in as they passed and could see large windows, and women busily sewing. There seemed to be dressmaker’s dummies with gowns all at various stages of completion on them everywhere she looked. Amy would have loved to pause and study them, but instead she continued to follow the woman until she came to the end of the landing, where she paused to knock at a door. She then held it open for them so that they could pass her, and once they were inside she inclined her head politely and withdrew.

They found themselves in what appeared to be a large office, and almost immediately a man rose from behind a vast desk. He was nearly as tall as Mr Forrester and he smiled at them welcomingly. He was immaculately dressed in a smart black tail-suit, and beneath the suit he was wearing a bright satin waistcoast with a heavy gold chain attached to a fob watch that was tucked into a pocket. Beneath that was a stiffly starched white shirt and an elegant blue silk cravat. His greying hair was heavily greased and lay flat to his head, and he had bushy sideburns and a little waxed moustache. Amy felt somewhat intimidated by him, but when he approached Mr Forrester with his hand outstretched, he was smiling.

‘Monsieur Forrester,’ he beamed as the two men shook hands warmly. ‘You are most welcome.’

Amy was relieved to hear that although he too had a heavy French accent, he spoke in English.

‘And you must be Mademoiselle Ernshaw,’ he said, turning his attention to Amy.

Amy nodded and to her embarrassment he clicked his heels together and bowing from the waist he then took her hand and kissed it, his eyes openly admiring. ‘Enchanté. I am … how do you say? Most charmed to meet you.’

Amy stifled the urge to giggle as he ushered them to the far side of the room where he opened a large cabinet that contained numerous bottles of wine and a number of elegant cutglass wine goblets.

‘Voudriez-vous quelque chose à boire?’ he asked, and then remembering who his visitors were, he quickly repeated in English, ‘You would like a drink?’

Amy shook her head, feeling totally out of her depth, and once Monsieur Laroque had poured a generous measure of red wine for himself and Mr Forrester, he then ushered them to a sofa.

‘I am most delighted that you have come,’ he told them sincerely. ‘I am intrigued with the designs that I have seen so far. They are very impressive. But do forgive me … I am forgetting my manners. Before we go on to that I must enquire, is the hotel that I booked for you to your satisfaction?’

Amy and Mr Forrester nodded in unison.

‘Yes, thank you, Monsieur Laroque,’ Mr Forrester assured him as he placed his glass on a small table. ‘Indeed it is. In fact, it is very comfortable indeed.’

The Frenchman nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good, good. I always book Le Meurice for business colleagues who are visiting my establishments. I have never as yet been disappointed with the service they receive, but please, if there is anything that you require, do not hesitate to ask. I wish your stay to be as enjoyable as possible and, I hope, mutually beneficial.’ There was a twinkle in his eye as he smiled at Amy and she felt herself begin to relax a little.

‘Anyway, let us now get to the purpose of your visit, Mademoiselle Ernshaw. As I have already expressed, I have been most impressed with the designs for hats and clothing that I have already seen. You have, I hope, brought me some more to look at?’

Amy nodded and immediately withdrew a pile of sketches from the large leather bag at her side. Monsieur Laroque took them to his desk and began to study them and before they knew it two hours had passed as they sat discussing the different styles and fashions.

When Monsieur Laroque finally raised his head from the sketches he was smiling broadly. ‘I think, Monsieur Forrester, you have in Mademoiselle Ernshaw what you English call a star?’

Amy blushed furiously as Samuel smiled in agreement.

‘But now, enough!’ the Frenchman declared. ‘Assez! It is time to eat and then after lunch you shall see one of my salons. Come!’

Obediently they followed him from the room, back along the landing and down the metal stairs, and in no time at all they were sitting outside one of the colourful little cafés that lined the grand avenue. They ate freshly baked rolls, split down the middle and filled with a delicious variety of cheeses, and then they had tiny little choux pastries all covered in mouthwatering fruits and topped with freshly whipped cream. Amy had not felt hungry at all after eating such a large breakfast, but she tucked into every mouthful, wondering if it tasted so much better because they were outside in the open air. The meal was washed down with a large carafe of white wine for the men and delicate cups of hot chocolate for her, and when it was finally over, Monsieur Laroque sat back in his chair and patted his protruding belly contentedly.

‘Ah, that was good, no?’

Enjoying herself immensely, Amy caught his eye and grinned, sure that she would never want to eat again.

After Monsieur Laroque had paid the bill he led them back through the crowded streets of Paris to his fashion house, chatting to them amicably as he went.

‘As I promised earlier, this afternoon you shall see one of my salons,’ he stated. ‘I think you will find it most interesting, n’est-ce pas? Here we do not have the same sales techniques as you have in England, but we shall see, eh?’

When they got back to the salon, he spoke for some moments to one of the women, then turned back to his guests.

‘My assistant informs me that there is presently a customer in the salon, so you shall please come with me and see how we sell gowns in Paris.’

Leading them to a second, velvet-draped doorway, he stood politely aside and ushered them into what he referred to as ‘the salon’.

Amy stared around in awe. A raised platform ran along one wall, and in front of it were dotted elegant little settees with dainty gilded legs.

On one of them was seated an immaculately dressed elderly lady, with a large plumed hat on her head, and a much younger, but equally beautifully dressed woman at her side.

The older woman raised her eyes imperiously at their entrance, but then as the heavy curtains at the end of the platform parted she turned her attention back to the show. A very attractive young woman appeared, dressed in a stunning sapphire-blue ballgown, and walked slowly up and down the platform with her hand on her hip, twirling this way and that so that the gown was shown to its best advantage. The moment she disappeared, another equally confident young woman swept through the curtains in a totally different style of gown.

‘In Paris, this is how we display our gowns to our customers,’ whispered Monsieur Laroque. ‘Two models parade in the gowns until the customer sees one that they like. Only then do they order a copy and give their measurements.’

Amy sat entranced as the two models, with smiles seemingly painted on their faces, came and went.

‘You approve of our designs, yes?’ Monsieur Laroque enquired. He leaned forward and went on in a hushed voice, ‘My salons are frequented by the very elite of Paris society, so they expect to be … how do you say … pampered?’

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly as Monsieur Laroque gave them a tour of his fashion house. He took them upstairs to meet the seamstresses and some of his designers who worked in a separate room.

That evening, as Amy and the Forresters enjoyed a leisurely dinner together in the hotel dining room, she could talk of little else. She and Josephine retired, tired but content, leaving Mr Forrester to partake of a nightcap with some other gentlemen in the bar.

After hastily washing, Amy pulled on her nightgown and took the pins from her hair, She then brushed it until it shone before leaping into the huge comfortable bed where she snuggled down and slept like a baby.

The following day passed much as the first. Monsieur Laroque took them to visit another, if possible even grander one of his salons, situated on the other side of the River Seine – known as the Left Bank – near the Palais du Luxembourg. While they were there, he left some of Amy’s designs with his head designer to peruse.

During the afternoon, as they rattled back to the hotel over the Pont Neuf, heading once more for the rue de Rivoli, he enquired politely, ‘Please to tell me. Have you made any arrangements for this evening?’

Still struggling to understand his deep accent, Amy was relieved when Mr Forrester answered for them. ‘No, monsieur, I think we were intending to stay in at the hotel.’

‘Ah, good, good. Then may I ask if you would care to join my family and myself for dinner at our home – the Château de Chêne. Le chêne is an oak tree – I believe you British have the hearts of oak, n’est-ce pas?’ He beamed at them. ‘My wife, Edwige, and my son and daughter, François and Adeline, are most eager to meet you.’

Amy’s eyes danced with excitement at the prospect as she glanced towards Mr Forrester to see what his reply would be.

‘That is most kind of you, monsieur. My wife and Miss Ernshaw and I would be delighted to accept your invitation.’

‘Then that is settled,’ said their host. ‘My carriage shall call for you at seven o’clock. I trust that will give you both time to prepare?’

Amy hugged herself in anticipation. Oh, what a lot she was going to have to tell Molly and Toby when she got home. They were never going to believe her, not in a million years.