The Silver Thread

By Kylie Fitzpatrick

Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © 2012 Kylie Fitzpatrick
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-908800-12-1

Contents

Title Page,
Dedication,
Epigraph,
4 April 1841,
I Linen,
Flax,
Flannel,
Yarn,
Jacquard,
Satin,
Calico,
Merino,
Paisley,
Weave,
Tartan,
Cambric,
Devoré,
Gossamer,
Brocade,
Chine,
Ribbon,
Armozeen,
Corinna,
Silk,
Serge,
Cloth,
Cashmere,
Organza,
Lawn,
Velvet,
Linsey,
Taffeta,
Embroidery,
Crinoline,
Hessian,
II Silver,
4 April 1841,
Hemp,
Twill,
Knots,
Patchwork,
Valetine,
Balzarine,
Gabardine,
Upholstery,
Cross stitch,
Canvas,
Chintz,
Threads,
Sailcloth,
Stitchery,
Herringbone,
III Wool,
Fur,
Parramatta Cloth,
Worsted,
Tweed,
Alpaca,
Lace,
Straw,
Houndstooth,
Crochet,
Broadcloth,
Quilt,
Felt,
Leather,
Merchant’s Quay, October 1842,
Acknowledgements,
About the Author,
About the Book,
Copyright,

CHAPTER 1

Flax

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven;
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendour of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

St Patrick (fifth century bc)

Do not think of him.

Rhia had been not thinking about William all afternoon and it showed. She squinted: the pattern was crooked.

Everything was out of shape lately. Serpentine, Mamo would have said. Life does not always beat an even rhythm, Rhiannon. It meanders like chords on a harp. The resonance of the old woman’s voice seemed to move the air. She could almost be in the room. Rhia let her paintbrush drop into the tray. She had tried to resurrect the pattern all afternoon and it still looked as wrinkled as silk moiré. Now the light was only fit for catching swirls of dust, the sun so low that it filtered through the canvas, making her pigments as translucent as coloured glass.

She blamed William. He should not have called.

It could have been a day given, with the front room all to herself and nothing to do but paint. It could have been. The question was, would her father understand that she’d had to tell William what had happened in Greystones all those years ago? It was unlikely.

To Connor Mahoney, truth was a holy thing. So was chastity. And marriage. This was the kind of rhetoric he had brandished since Rhia was old enough to irk him. She had always been expert at it. She understood, now, that it depended on the nature of the truth, and that discretion outranked honesty. Sadly, she possessed neither.

A carriage bell tinkled and, not for the first time that day, Rhia wished herself in Greystones, walking barefoot on the shale, listening only to the sea and the gulls.

Connor Mahoney’s boots tapped briskly up the stairs.

Rhia removed her smock. She paced to the front window. She smoothed her hair in its reflection and paced back to the fireplace. There was absolutely no need to tell him that she had upset his cherished William. It would all blow over and they would be married next February as scheduled. The time for having a say in such matters was past – the fact remained that no one else had offered. The fact remained that she had not fallen in love.

Or else, she had not fallen for lo