The Silversmith's Daughter

by Annie Murray

  Her blood speeded up. She grew aware of a vein pulsing in her neck. But she carried on with what she was doing – tidying, making sure nothing had been left in the bath of pickle, washing her hands, removing her overall.

  As she did so, he came into the room, gently pushing the door closed.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she said lightly, looking across at him.

  ‘Good afternoon, my dear.’

  She finished bustling and went to fetch her coat. ‘Shall we go?’ His walking her home had quickly become a habit.

  ‘Of course.’ He stood at the door, holding his hat, the cloak over one arm. As she went to pull the door open, he said, ‘Wait, my dear. Just one moment.’

  She looked up at him, half expectant, half nervous. He was standing so close to her that she could not fail to be affected by him.

  ‘I face a dilemma,’ he said, looking down at the wooden floor. She waited, wondering what on earth this might be and why he would be talking to her about it.

  ‘I’m a man,’ he said, looking at her with solemn eyes. ‘I am no jingoist, but I feel I should do my duty to my country. That perhaps I should follow the call . . .’

  She almost cried out, No – oh, no, don’t do that! But she stopped herself. She saw Den’s face in front of her for a moment and felt a shock of guilt. Despite his asking her to write, she had heard nothing from him since he left and she had completely forgotten to write to him.

  ‘But,’ she protested, ‘surely there is no need? It can’t go on much longer?’

  ‘I fear that view may be mistaken,’ he said solemnly. ‘After all, the war is spreading already, in the east, and they’re digging in – a stalemate.’ He held out a hand in an expansive way. ‘Look what they did to the Belgian people – such cruel barbarity! They have to be stopped.’

  ‘But aren’t you . . . ?’ She had been about to say too old. She corrected herself quickly. ‘Surely you must be of more use here? And your wife won’t want you to go.’

  His glance flickered at her. ‘Perhaps not. But there is another thing.’ He stepped even closer to her. Eyes full of emotion, he reached a hand to her face and very gently shifted a little lock of hair hanging at her temple. ‘My dear Daisy . . . Oh!’ He removed his hand as if afraid of himself. ‘Every day when I see you . . . You are simply the loveliest thing I have ever seen! So gifted, so beautiful! Everywhere I go, I see you before my eyes. I can think of little else – it’s as if you have bewitched me!’

  She stood very still, washed in his words. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. It affected her like a spell, though she had no idea what exactly this meant or what to say in reply. She had known a few lads pursue her before, but she had brushed them away like flies, not interested in return. They were like children! But this man – this married man, she reminded herself. What did this mean?

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Seeing how at a loss she was he retreated, lowering his hand. ‘I should not have said anything. But you do something to me, Miss Daisy Tallis . . .’ He was smiling now, those eyes lighting up. ‘I am filled with adoration, like an acolyte at the throne!’

  Fortunately, before she could even begin to think of anything to say in reply to this, he opened the door again and swept out through it. ‘Come along, my dear – I must return you safely to your home!’

  Daisy lay in the slanting light of the attic, reliving these moments over and again in her mind. Mr Carson, worshipping her, thinking her work was something exceptional. He thought far more of her than Pa had ever done – it was utterly extraordinary and exciting. And her feelings of unease at this, she told herself, were unnecessary. Mr Carson had a wife who was a successful artist. Everything was right and proper and what she had seen in his eyes was the burning admiration of one artist for another. And this, she admitted to herself, was all she had ever wanted! It was intensely exciting and gratifying. She could have lain there dreaming about it and let the hours drift past.

  ‘Come along, you silly thing,’ she said, dragging herself off the bed. ‘MIZPAH. That’s what you need to be getting on with.’

  Eight

  There was a day that changed everything. Despite his intense manner and his interest in her, Mr Carson had never been anything but courteous. Wherever she went in the school, he would appear. After a time she could sometimes sense him even before she saw him, would feel a tingling at the back of her neck, almost as if he was breathing on her. She might turn and look about her and there he would be. He asked after her classes, he gave advice and praise, told her about some of his smithing students, about his own painting. And often he walked her home. Only once, though, had he finally come into the house to greet her father. Pa had been in the workshop and Daisy did not follow Mr Carson out there to see what sort of greeting he received, though afterwards Pa did not seem exactly excited by this event.

  And then, that afternoon as they stepped out into the raw, smoky air of the street, Mr Carson turned to her from under the wide brim of his hat. To her bewilderment she saw that he seemed shy, tense, almost as if he was afraid of her.

  ‘Perhaps, if you’re not in a hurry, you’d like to come in for some tea?’ he said.

  Although his lodging place was nearby, Daisy had never been there. She was excited. Did this mean that she might at last meet the mysterious Mrs Carson and see some of her paintings? Though she had never yet had a glimpse of Victoria Carson, Daisy already held up Georgie Gaskin, the wife of the head of the school, Arthur Gaskin, high in her mind as if she were a god. She was hoping Victoria Carson might be another woman and artist she could worship. Perhaps Mrs Carson might even take an interest in her?

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘If it’s convenient for . . . for you both.’

  She knew he lived in rooms, rather than the grand house she might have imagined, but she had never really given much thought to why Mr and Mrs Carson did not live in bigger, more impressive accommodation. At the far end of the street, he said lightly, ‘Here we are,’ and steered her in through a doorway. ‘Just up the stairs there.’ He stood back politely as if to let her pass, then changed his mind. ‘I’d better lead the way.’

  Daisy climbed the stairs, wishing she had known in advance she was to make this visit. She was in her old working dress, the cornflower-blue one, and the old blue cardigan. Even in overalls there was a risk of soiling her clothing with flux or any number of other substances in the classroom, so this was the dress she almost always wore to teach. But the soft, comfortable stuff of the dress now made her feel drab. She imagined that Mrs Carson would be draped over a chaise longue wearing silks and velvet slippers, with pearls and blossoms in her hair like a pre-Raphaelite heroine. Though she was taken aback by the dingy darkness of the staircase.

  On the first floor, Mr Carson stooped to insert his key in the lock. She looked at his long slender back, the thin, very slightly bowed legs in his black trousers, so close to her. Taking in his physical presence in this new place gave her a peculiar feeling. How strange it was to be this close to a man! She realized that while some girls her age were married with several babies round their legs, she had no idea really about men. Her heart started to thump harder and she found it hard to understand her sudden sense of misgiving, as if her instincts were running before what her mind could understand. But at least Mrs Carson would be there. She did not need to worry about anything.

  ‘Here we are!’ Mr Carson flung the door open. ‘Come along, my dear. And let me see about making us some tea. It will take me a little while to get the fire going, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But,’ Daisy said, astonished, ‘don’t you have a maid?’

  ‘Not at present,’ Mr Carson said, immediately laying kindling on the fire and filling the kettle from a pail of water beside the fireplace.

  Daisy watched, amazed. Was this how Mr and Mrs Carson lived? The room – one of two from what she could see, since there was a door leading off this one – had what she decided to think of as a simple, artistic charm. She looked about her. So this was how real
artists lived! The floor was simply rough boards, the walls white and the only furniture a table and chairs, a cupboard and two other very old French-style chairs, the back and seat upholstered, with slender wooden legs. There was no range, simply a fireplace with a pair of fire dogs, a hook on which to hang the kettle or a pot over the flames and, lying tucked behind the brass fender, a long-handled iron skillet.

  There were sagging brown curtains at the windows. In the corner behind her stood an easel with a board tilted on it and there was a muddle of paints and spirit bottles and a rough pile of sketchbooks on the floor beside it. Other than Mr Carson’s cloak and hat now lying on the chair, there was very little else in the room. As she looked about her, she found an enchantment to this bare, careless room. None of the domesticity of children and wet napkins hanging and all the stifling, tedious work that went along with that – all of which had arrived in twenty-four Chain Street with the birth of her half-brother and -sister. This, here, was a life given over to art. Oh, this was what she wanted – to be with these people, to learn from them!

  ‘Is that a painting of Mrs Carson’s?’ she asked, as the fire began to crackle into life. She did not presume to walk round and look at the picture, as it was turned to face the wall.

  Mr Carson shovelled coal on to the flames before coming over to her, gently, almost like someone about to impart bad news.

  ‘The room will soon be warm,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take your coat off – put it with mine, umm?’

  Daisy did as he suggested, laying her coat and hat on top of his, which somehow made her tingle with a sense of intimacy. Mr Carson indicated one of the chairs for her to sit. The upholstery was threadbare and of a very faded old gold.

  He drew the other one closer and perched on the edge of it, legs bent, leaning solemnly towards her.

  ‘I need to explain the situation to you, Daisy,’ he said. ‘The reason I am living in this rather straitened way. I have only been back here a matter of a few weeks, so I do hope to make better arrangements eventually. But I am having to lend support . . .’

  Daisy was wondering even more where Mrs Carson was at this moment, but she soon found out.

  ‘What I have not explained is that my wife . . . that Victoria did not come back here with me. She has stayed in Sheffield, where she has teaching work and a small studio and where she wishes to continue her life – without me. However, I must of course continue to support her financially, which stretches me rather . . .’

  He looked down for a moment as if in distaste at having to discuss matters of money.

  Daisy stared at him, feeling that her expression must look foolish. She was finding it hard to take in what he was saying. And the idea of having to be ‘paid for’ like Mrs Carson – even an artist like Victoria Carson! – repelled her. Why was Mrs Carson not here? What a strange thing. And why, if you were a woman, did you always have to be dependent on a man’s money? It seemed humiliating. She cleared her throat and tried to appear more intelligent.

  Looking deeply into her eyes, he said, ‘Mrs Carson and I are now married purely in name. What I mean, Daisy, is that while I am a married man, it is in law only – not in matters of the heart.’

  Daisy’s first feeling was of disappointment. She would never meet Mrs Carson now. Could you just stop being married like this? Didn’t that mean . . . ? She had never met anyone who had done that terrible thing – divorce. Mr Carson leaned even further towards her.

  ‘My heart is changed now from what it was,’ he said softly. ‘I realize that I have known you since you were very young, my dear. But when I came back here and saw you – little Daisy Tallis – grown into such a fine woman . . . And not just fine but so brilliant, so talented like her mother before her, I . . .’

  Again he removed his gaze from her for a second as if afraid, but he seemed compelled to go on and he got to his feet and took her hand, drawing her towards him.

  ‘It has been a terrible time – such a lonely time, my dear. I had never imagined that Victoria could be so cruel . . . I look at you and you are so young, so utterly lovely, Daisy, I can hardly believe you are in this poor little chamber with me. I’ve tried to behave in the right way because I have such a deep respect for your father – and for you. But ever since I saw you for the first time in the school, my heart has been yours. That’s all I can say, foolish man that I am.’ He spread his hands, palms up. ‘I just can’t seem to help it.’

  He reached out and took one of her hands, holding it between both of his cool ones as if it were a precious bird. She dared to look up at him, into his handsome face, which appeared afraid and joyful and desirous all at once. His eyes held her gaze, his face attempting a smile, but her fingertips could feel the pulse of a vein at his wrist, his blood beating like a bird’s heart.

  She was moved beyond words, by the poverty of the room, by him living in the way of a suffering artist after the desertion by his wife, by his adoration of her. Her heart swelled, filling with tender, protective feelings.

  ‘Oh,’ she said emotionally. ‘Oh, Mr Carson . . .’

  ‘James.’ He squeezed her hand for a second. ‘Please, my dear – call me James.’

  ‘James.’ She tried it on her lips the way she had often tried it in her daydreams. And she smiled up at him. It was delicious to be adored, to feel the force of this astonishing man.

  ‘Is there any hope,’ he asked humbly, ‘of your having any feeling for me? I know I am old in your eyes – I am what? Thirteen, fourteen years your senior?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, thinking of her father and Margaret, whose ages were also far apart. She already saw the years ahead, Daisy Tallis and James Carson – a pair of artists who would be known and admired.

  Mr Carson laughed joyfully. ‘Oh, Daisy – you’re a miracle, you truly are!’

  Moments later they heard the kettle getting up steam and he released her gently.

  ‘Come – sit and we shall make merry!’ he said quaintly. He poured water into the teapot, steam billowing about him, and Daisy watched, entranced. This man was in love with her and she – oh, yes – she was in love with him. Oh, now life was really beginning!

  Nine

  She knew she must say nothing at home.

  Almost every time now, she went to his rooms after classes were finished. She invented other reasons for being later home than before: demands of the school, or May Gordon had asked her to visit.

  Margaret kept saying, ‘It’s nice that you and May are seeing such a lot of each other again, Daisy – why don’t you invite her here for a change? She’s very welcome.’ May used to visit often while they were together at Vittoria Street. Daisy, who had no real intention of seeing May, gave vague responses. She did not want to give up any of her secret times with Mr Carson in his rooms.

  They were very careful. The second time she had been there, he said, ‘I’ll go on ahead and get that kettle on the fire!’ And Daisy followed. This became a habit which they did not discuss. They never went out together. Daisy would glance about her before stepping into the doorway to his staircase to ensure that no over-familiar face – one of Pa’s office workers like Mr Henshaw or stiff old Miss Allen – were about to swim out of the crowd. And then she would hurry inside, full of excitement at this intrigue and at being alone with someone who adored her. She did not examine closely why they needed to act so secretly.

  Sitting by the fire, they drank tea. Mr Carson usually bought something nice like crumpets or pikelets which they toasted on the flames, eating them hot and dripping with butter. He joked that they were living ‘bohemian style’. It was obvious that he enjoyed treating her, sometimes bringing special little cakes as well, and Daisy lapped up the attention, something in short supply at home these days.

  He asked her about herself, her mother, her new family. He quizzed her about what she was working on and she described her tea service and the designs she was thinking of. And he told her about his boyhood in a place near London called Middlesex, and th
at he had always painted and drawn since he could hold a pencil.

  ‘My parents were quite humble souls,’ he said. ‘Father worked in a market garden. But they did not prevent me. My elder brother followed my father so I was given freedom to find my own way. I went as apprentice to a smith in Clerkenwell – that’s where I started learning my trade. Silver was always my first love – although I’ve always drawn and painted as well.’

  And he told her that he had once been to the great William Morris’s house at Kelmscott and been introduced to John Ruskin himself. To Daisy these were the names of giants: they seemed more than real people.

  Another time he popped a lump of sugar into Daisy’s teacup with a pair of delicate tongs which he then held up to regard fondly.

  ‘Imagine if we had not had tea introduced to this country in the seventeenth century – why would we ever have needed all those tongs and sugar sifters and toast racks?’

  Daisy laughed and told him that she was now making a toast rack for her tea service.

  ‘And I’m sure it will be extraordinary – you must let me see,’ he said, licking the butter delicately from his fingers. He always sat with his legs splayed, leaning forward in the chair as if about to leap to his feet and do something urgent, even when eating toast. And she loved the way his thin face and dark eyes were always so full of life and humour.

  One dark, windy March afternoon, when they had sat awhile with tea by the fire, James Carson got to his feet, as if on a sudden impulse.

  ‘Daisy?’ He came close and held out his hand, drawing her to her feet. ‘Oh, my dear, dear girl.’

  She could hear a change in his voice from the light entertainer of other days. There was an urgency which sent a feeling through her, of excitement, of danger, she was not sure which. Because whenever she was with him it was as if her skin was sensitive, as if the hairs had all been stroked back the wrong way and were waiting to be rearranged.