Read Last Telegram for Free Online

fabric,” Gwen said, pointing at the end of the roll. “For every fault, we supply an extra half yard—it’s our reputation for quality.” I nodded frequently, trying to appear more enthusiastic than I felt. “Now, how much do you know about silk?”
    â€œNot much, I’m afraid,” I admitted, embarrassed. Surely a Verner should have silk in the blood?
    I caught the first hint of a smile. “I’ll take that as a challenge, then.”
    Gwen turned to a shelf and lifted a heavy roll onto the table, steadied an end with one hand, and, in a single deft movement, grasped the loose end of the material and pulled out a cascade that unravelled like liquid gold.
    â€œWow,” I said, genuinely dazzled.
    She crumpled a bundle between her hands, lowering her ear to it. “Listen.”
    I bent my head, and she scrunched it again. It sounded like a footstep on dry snow or cotton wool tearing.
    â€œThat’s called scroop, a good test for real silk when it’s been dyed in the yarn.”
    As I crumpled it, the vibration ran through my hands, up my arms, and into my ears, making me shiver.
    She rolled up the gold with practiced ease and pulled out a bolt of vivid scarlet, deep purple, and green stripes, spread it across the table with that same skilled movement, then expertly folded a diagonal section into a necktie shape and held it beneath her chin. “Tie materials are mostly rep stripes and Jacquard designs,” she said, “woven to order for clubs and societies. Men so love their status symbols, don’t they?”
    Again, I saw that puzzling crimp at the corner of her eyes. “Jacquard?”
    â€œType of loom. Clever bit of kit for weaving patterns, brought here by your Huguenot ancestors. You’ll see them when we go down to the weaving shed.”
    She unravelled a third roll. This one had a navy background with a delicate gold fleur-de-lis pattern. She pulled a small brass object from her pocket, carefully unfolding it into a tiny magnifying glass hinged onto two plates, one of which had a square hole. She placed this on the silk and gestured for me to put my eye to the glass.
    The motif was so enlarged that hair-like individual silk threads, almost invisible to the naked eye, looked like strands of wool so thick that I could measure them against the ruler markings along the inner square of the lower plate. “I had no idea,” I murmured, fascinated by the miniature world under the glass. “There’s so much more to it than I ever imagined.” As I looked up, the glint of satisfaction that passed across Gwen’s face reminded me of my Latin teacher when I’d finally managed to get those wretched declensions right.
    She moved along the racking and pulled out a fat roll. “This one’s spun silk,” she said, unravelling the cloth and draping it over my hands. It was heavy, the texture of matte satin, the color of clotted cream, and wonderfully sensuous. It felt deliciously soft and warm, like being stroked with eiderdown, and almost without thinking I lifted it to my cheek. Then I caught that knowing smile again, felt self-conscious, and handed it back rather too hastily. Gwen’s manner was unnerving: most of the time she was coolly professional and businesslike, but sometimes her responses were disconcertingly intimate, as though she could read my thoughts.
    She looked up at the clock. “It’s nearly coffee-break. Just time for the pièce de résistance .”
    At first, I thought the taffeta was aquamarine. But when its shimmering threads caught the light, the color shifted to an intense royal blue. It was like a mirage, there one moment and gone the next. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s shot silk. A blue weft shot through a green warp.” She held up a length, iridescent as a butterfly wing, into a shaft of sunlight. I almost gasped.
    As I took a piece of cloth and angled it to watch the