by Sophia Tobin
But she was wrong. It was utterly familiar, as though it had waited at the back of her mind all this time, bedded into the layers of her memory, to be raised whole and complete in every detail. She stared at it as one would at the ghost of a loved one or a darkest enemy. The years fell away, and she was young again.
She had peeled off her white gloves in the heat, and her husband held her hand, as London continued around them in its obliviousness. The Club stood in the twilight, a spectre from another time, faced with pale Portland stone and set on a plinth of storm-coloured granite. Above each of the upper-storey windows were decorations darkened by pollution: overflowing cornucopia, a flaming torch crossed with a sheaf of arrows – the trophies of a former age, their messages meaningless to an age of concrete and glass. Its large windows were bright with electric light.
They crossed the road, and went closer still. Livy walked up to it: put her hand to the wall. The building towered above her. Closer, she saw its scars; stared up its flank, pitted and blackened in patches. It bore its imperfections triumphantly, as though they were of no consequence. She saw no broken windows, no fluttering drapes, no signs of major damage. Its bruises sympathetically restored, it stood as firm as a fortress. The front doors were thrown open and from its entrance came the sound of laughter and voices echoing off the marble-clad walls of the Stair Hall.
‘Are you sure you want to go in?’ her husband said.
‘Yes.’
There was no Bill. No Peggy. She looked for them, but saw only unfamiliar faces. So much had changed in the meantime – whole lives been lived, children been born, but the interior was uncannily the same: perfectly restored after the bombing, even the entrance Hall with its panelling. She remembered how she and Peggy had emerged from the fire, gasping, into the London air, astonished to be alive. There was the same dome, spinning away from her. And Woman and Looking Glass, reinstated to its pre-war position, so that she exclaimed out loud, her breath catching on a sob, and her husband seized a glass of wine from a passing tray and put it gently in her hand.
As she drank it, she looked around. No Jonathan. And she hadn’t thought of him for years; could barely remember his face. They had gone to Redlands, once. The house thrown open to visitors, a museum of a lost world. No sign of the family. The land rolled on for ever. She hadn’t known how responsible Jonathan must have felt for it all, how vast and rich it was, how ungovernable. She and her husband and children had picnicked on the front lawn.
Her eyes focused on the painting as she took her last mouthful of wine, and her husband took the glass to find a refill. How we lived through that time, I do not know. You and I, Charlotte, how we survived. How strange: it was just a painting now. Familiar, yes, but not freighted with that intensity which she remembered.
‘Very fine painting. I’ve always liked it.’ She turned to see a man she did not recognize. He introduced himself as the current director of the Club, and Livy put her white gloves on again, to shake his hand. He wore a ceremonial jewelled badge tied on a ribbon round his neck.
‘That’s a beautiful thing,’ she said, the drink giving her courage. ‘I don’t remember seeing it before. I was here in the 1940s.’
‘It was put away with the treasures during the war, so I’m told,’ the man said. ‘It’s Victorian, and was designed by some past director. It has a crystal behind the coat of arms. I have no idea why. He was rather a strange chap.’ He pulled a face. ‘Eccentric. It makes it so heavy.’ Laughing, he flipped it over, and back again. And she stared at it, this irregular, pear-shaped crystal.
‘Can I see it again?’ she said. And the second glance confirmed it as much as a glance ever could. ‘You should have it valued,’ she said. ‘As a piece of jewellery. It looks like a diamond to me.’ She was amazed at how calm she felt, saying the words.
‘I don’t think so.’ His face was still jovial, but doubtful.
They talked over other things, until, laughing, the director moved on. And Livy closed her eyes for a moment. It made sense, she supposed, that Ashton should put the diamond into something related to the Club. The place which had been the centre of his life after Charlotte’s departure. The proof lies heavy on my chest. The Kinsburg Diamond. How hard it must be, she thought, to think you are powerful, and yet have the one thing you want always slip through your fingers. But though she pitied him, she could not forgive him leaving the fake stone for his descendants to find, sending the echo of that bitter disappointment and disillusionment down the generations. Had he really wanted his children, or his children’s children, to feel the shock of that fall in the heart, as he had? She thought of Jonathan, of his struggles, and she thought she might weep.
‘Here you are.’ It was her husband, bearing more wine, his face bright and slightly flushed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘You put so much more feeling into your thanks when I bring you wine.’
She laughed. ‘You should have some too.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, I certainly will.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’
‘Beyond odd.’
‘And to see the painting.’
‘What does it feel like, being here?’ She saw the concern in his face, the slightest hint of insecurity. ‘Any ghosts?’
‘No.’ She turned away from the painting, towards the growing party, voices rising cheerfully in the echoing marble hall. A grand building: a place built for dining, and celebration; a place built to outlast generations. ‘No ghosts at all.’
And at those words of reassurance Christian Taylor smiled, and kissed her on the forehead.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Mirrormakers’ Club is a fictional club. The first gentlemen’s club in the City of London was the City of London Club, founded in 1832, and designed by architect Philip Hardwick, who also built the nearby Goldsmiths’ Hall (1829–35). Hardwick’s correspondence in the Goldsmiths’ Company’s archives was of immense value when creating Henry Dale-Collingwood. To Hardwick, Henry also owes his house in Russell Square.
In appearance, the Kinsburg Diamond is based on the Beau Sancy diamond.
For Livy’s amnesia and associated fugue states I am indebted to Daniel L. Schacter’s book Searching For Memory.
The records of the Architect’s Department of London County Council, held at the London Metropolitan Archives, were central to my research, as were the works of many fine authors and historians of the Second World War. All errors are my own. I am particularly indebted to The London County Council Bomb Damage Maps, 1939–1945 edited by Laurence Ward, and Recording Ruin by A. S. G. Butler. I am also indebted to the witness account of the Second Great Fire of London recorded in the Goldsmiths’ Company court minutes of 1940. The PhD of Bethan Bide (Austerity Fashion 1945–1951) meant that Livy was clothed in colour rather than the drab clothes I had originally pictured her in.
The two main firewatchers in the book are affectionately named for Barry Thomas and Louie Robinson. I hope they both enjoy seeing their names in print.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful for the dedication of my editor, Joanne Dickinson at Simon & Schuster, whose guidance and advice greatly improved this book. My thanks to editorial assistant Alice Rodgers, publicist Jess Barratt, copy editor Susan Opie and proofreader Clare Hubbard.
Gratitude as always to my wonderful agent Jane Finigan, and to the fantastic team at Lutyens & Rubinstein, especially Juliet Mahony, Fran Davies and Hana Grisenthwaite.
I am indebted to the staff of the London Library and the London Metropolitan Archives for their assistance. Nigel Israel alerted me to the existence of the City of London Club, for which I am truly grateful.
Grateful thanks to my colleagues at the Goldsmiths’ Company, including (but not limited to) faithful book-buyers Chan Allen, David Beasley, Eleni Bide, Caitlin Brannan, Clare Breen, Ciorsdan Brown, Mairi Dunn, Jake Emmett, Teresa Hassett, Liane Owen, Deborah Roberts and Stephanie Souroujon.
For their mor
al support, and so much more besides, I am grateful to: Lucy Adams, Sophie Carp, Emily Kidson, Sian Robinson, Gill Sampson, Ruth Seward, Amanda Wright and Samantha Woodward.
During the writing process Kate Mayfield talked me off many a literary ledge and I am immensely grateful to her. I am also indebted to Sophie Hardach, Jason Hewitt, Antonia Hodgson and Mel Backe-Hansen who were supportive of the book. Thanks also to the many other writers who have offered camaraderie and friendship.
I am grateful to my family, near and far, including my sister Angela and her family. As always, my love and thanks to my parents, my sister Lisa and her sons Samuel and Harrison for their steadfast faith and affection.
My husband Aelred makes everything possible with his love and support.
This book is dedicated to Miss Kilmartin (whose first name I never knew) and Dr Robert Hume, two influential teachers whose love of English and History respectively has shaped the lives of hundreds of schoolchildren, including me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sophia Tobin was raised in Kent. She has studied History and History of Art, and worked for a Bond Street antique dealer for six years, specializing in silver and jewellery. She currently works in a library and archive. Inspired by her research into a real eighteenth-century silversmith, Tobin began to write The Silversmith’s Wife, which was shortlisted for the Lucy Cavendish College Fiction Prize. It was published by Simon & Schuster in 2014. Her second novel, The Widow’s Confession, was published in 2015, and her third, The Vanishing, in 2017. Tobin lives in London with her husband.
By the same author:
The Silversmith’s Wife
The Widow’s Confession
The Vanishing
Sophia Tobin
‘A self-assured, page-turning debut which leaves you guessing until the last – a great read’ Daily Mail
The year is 1792 and it’s winter in Berkeley Square. As the city sleeps, the night-watchman keeps a cautious eye over the streets and another eye in the back doors of the great and the good. Then one fateful night he comes across the body of Pierre Renard, the local silversmith, lying dead, his throat cut and his valuables missing. It could be common theft, committed by one of the many villains who stalk the square, but as news of the murder spreads, it soon becomes clear that Renard had more than a few enemies, all with their own secrets to hide.
At the centre of this web is Mary, the silversmith’s wife. Ostensibly theirs was an excellent pairing, but behind closed doors their relationship was a dark and at times sadistic one and when we meet her, Mary is withdrawn and weak, haunted by her past and near-mad with guilt. Will she attain the redemption she seeks and what, exactly, does she need redemption for . . .?
Rich, intricate and beautifully told, this is a story of murder, love and buried secrets.
Available now in print, eBook and eAudio
Sophia Tobin
Broadstairs, Kent, 1851. Once a sleepy fishing village, now a select sea-bathing resort, this is a place where people come to take the air, and where they come to hide.
Delphine and her cousin Julia have come to the seaside with a secret, one they have been running from for years. The clean air and quiet outlook of Broadstairs appeal to them and they think this is a place they can hide from the darkness for just a little longer. Even so, they find themselves increasingly involved in the intrigues and relationships of other visitors to the town.
But this is a place with its own secrets, and a dark past. And when the body of a young girl is found washed up on the beach, a mysterious message scrawled on the sand beside her, the past returns to haunt Broadstairs and its inhabitants. As the incomers are drawn into the mystery and each others’ lives, they realize they cannot escape what happened here years before . . .
A compelling story of secrets, lies and lost innocence . . .
Available now in print, eBook and eAudio
Sophia Tobin
‘Think Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre, but ten times darker . . .
One to curl up by the fire with on a windy night’ Stylist
On top of the Yorkshire Moors, in an isolated spot carved out of a barren landscape, lies White Windows, a house of shadows and secrets. Here lives Marcus Twentyman, a hard-drinking but sensitive man, and his sister, the brisk widow, Hester.
When runaway Annaleigh first meets the Twentymans, their offer of employment and lodgings seems a blessing. Only later does she discover the truth. But by then she is already in the middle of a web of darkness and intrigue, where murder seems the only possible means of escape . . .
‘Undeniably page-turning’ Mail on Sunday
Available now in print, eBook and eAudio
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2019
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Sophia Tobin, 2019
The right of Sophia Tobin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Cover design: Emma Rogers
Cover images: Street scene © Mirrorpix;
Woman © Shutterstock; St Pauls © Alamy Stock Photo
Author photo © Julia Skupny
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5164-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5167-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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