The Silver Touch
Rosalind Laker
Copyright © Rosalind Laker 1987
The right of Rosalind Laker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1987 by Methuen London Ltd.
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Extract from What the Heart Keeps by Rosalind Laker
One
All they had allowed her to keep as a memento was the silver thimble. In a corner of the cottage room, Hester Needham sat on a stool out of the way. Twelve years old and country-reared, she watched bleakly the ransacking of her home by her half-brothers and -sisters. They had come to the funeral of her mother, the third wife of their late father, mainly to recover family possessions, and were picking over the spoils like so many vultures in their mourning attire.
No one had appeared to consider that the only surviving offspring of the marriage might have a right to anything and she was too proud and independent by nature to beg once her initial protest had been ignored. Even some pretty china, which she knew had been part of her mother’s dowry, had disappeared into one of the wooden crates that they had brought along. Gone as well were the herbal distillations at which her mother had been expert; the assorted little bottles of green, blue and amber glass with their healing contents annexed with everything else. At least she had inside her head the instructions she had received in this skilful craft and nobody could take that from her.
It was only when Ann Needham’s sewing-box, which nobody wanted, was opened for casual inspection that the thimble had come to light. Even in their greed they had not liked to remove it after agreeing between themselves that Hester could have the sewing-box; for her it was a special treasure. Her first memories were of the thimble catching the light on her mother’s finger. Star-bright; a thing of beauty in a precious metal that had never touched her life in any other way. It would always mean much to her.
‘Now what is to become of you, Hester?’
There was a look of compassion on Jack Needham’s ruddy, heavily jowled face as he crouched down on his hunkers to peer into her grief-pinched visage, his breath pungent with ale imbibed earlier that day. Of them all he had been the only one not to lay claim to anything in the cottage. His domineering wife had done that and he had simply obeyed her out of habit.
‘The parson’s wife has offered me domestic work.’ She was thankful not to have to be beholden to anyone present. ‘I’ll be living in there.’
He shook his tow-haired head solemnly. ‘No, lass. That’s not good enough. As head of the family I can’t allow a Needham to make a home with outsiders. You shall come to us and be welcome. Martha and I have plenty of room in our tavern for a young ’un.’
With a gulp that was almost a broken cry, Hester flung her arms around Jack’s neck from where she sat and buried her face in his huge shoulder. He had always been kind to her and her mother, calling in whenever he was in the district to make sure that all was well with them. Probably his wife, Martha, had never known of his gifts of a piece of bacon, a sack of flour or some other such item that had been more than welcome in their meagre circumstances. Big and generous, he had never come without a new hair ribbon for her in his pocket, or a simple fairing. Now, benevolent as ever, he was not going to desert her in her new and terrible loneliness.
A silence of relief had fallen on the room. The child had been on everyone’s conscience in that respect, each waiting for someone else to offer. None of them had approved of their father’s marriage to a woman less than half his age, but she had been a harmless creature who had looked after him well for the remaining years of his life. Nobody had anything against the child either, even though family hearsay was that she had been troublesome in the past and her russet-coloured hair was warning enough that troubles of another kind might occur in the future. Only Martha looked displeased by the solution, glaring at the back of her husband’s head.
‘You’ll not regret taking me in,’ Hester promised fervently, her choked words muffled against the coarse serge of her brother’s coat. ‘I’ll work hard.’
Martha’s voice cut sharply across the room. ‘You shall indeed. Fetch your cape. It’s time to leave. I want to get back to London before it’s dark. It’s not safe to be abroad on the road after dusk.’
Everybody was leaving, exchanging farewells with each other. Jack picked up the sewing-box to put it into the wagon before he hurried off to the parsonage to explain the change of arrangements. Hester took her cape down from a peg and put it on. The moment of departure from home had come and it was hard not to cry out in anguish for the love and happiness she had known there. In spite of herself there came the sting of tears again and she blinked them away, gathering up the bundle that held her clothes before tucking under her arm a battered leather holder that had been leaning against it. Nobody asked her what it contained, it being too shabby to be of any interest, and she was intensely relieved that it had been ignored. She could not have borne to have shared anything of herself with any one of them, not even Jack, and the folder held the best results of what she believed to be her only talent, an ability to draw and paint in a simple way.
‘I’m ready.’
‘About time too.’ Martha’s hands were rough as she hustled the child out before her. Not in the least maternal, she had always been thankful that motherhood had passed her by. Now she was saddled with this new and unwanted responsibility when she could least do with it.
Her life was the tavern, its comings and goings, the jokes with patrons old and new, and the happy conceit that as a fine-looking, amply built woman with a witty tongue she was as much an asset to the high reputation of the Heathcock Inn as the good ale and food it served to travellers and local folk alike. Jack was an oaf and always had been, too easy on those in debt to him and too lenient generally to be landlord of the best tavern in the Strand. Yet he could be as stubborn as a mule if he set his mind on something, which was why she had known better than to query his decision over Hester, particularly in front of the others. She had respect for him in a rage, although not at any other time.
As she took her place beside the driving seat at the front of the loaded wagon, Jack returned in time to help Hester up into the back of it. He thought her a thoroughly plain little thing today with her freckles dark against her pallor and her large grey eyes sunken in grief in her oval face, the swollen lids weighed down by the long, tear-damp lashes. She might easily have been a changeling he was settling into his wagon, for there was no sign today of the vital, lively young creature he knew her to be. But she would recover. There was no doubt of that.
‘You’ll be all right with us, Hester.’ He jerked his chin in hearty reassurance. ‘Never fear.’
In the wagon seat his wife twisted around impatiently to address him. ‘Come on, Jack. We’ve been away from the Heathcock too long already.’
With a suppressed sigh he went to swing himself up beside her, taking whip and reins into his hands. The wheels rolled forward. Hester sat amid a huddle of furniture and other remnants of her home, watching the cottage draw away along the rutted lane. She was leaving everything that was dear to her: the familiar clean, wide countryside, the birds that came to her window and the nuthatch that had fed from her hand. Disappearing from view were
the woods where she knew every path and the bluebell dell she had painted in all its azure tints. Gone forever were the meadows where she had run through the golden cowslips in spring and lain, drowsy with sunshine, amid buttercups under summer skies. A tearing pang went through her as she was driven past the churchyard where the new grave had been covered over, holding to itself the wild flowers she had thrown into it. The first part of her life had gone beyond recall, left behind already with its gentle memories. Now she was on her way to London where she had been born, although she had no recollection of the city. She had been only a few months old when Ann Needham had left it in early widowhood to return to her roots, having been a country girl. By then Ann’s parents were dead, and Hester could just remember the day when news came that her mother’s only brother had been lost at sea, leaving no kin on that side of the family.
There was no knowing yet whether she herself would like London any better than her mother had done. Probably not, but that did not mean she would not make the best of things. She was young and strong and healthy, unafraid of hard work as she had promised Jack, for she had done a full share of potato digging and fruit-picking and harvesting in her time. Unexpectedly the numbness of sorrow, which had been with her for many weeks since it had first become apparent that Ann Needham was not going to recover from her fever, was pierced by her natural resilience. It spurred her into lifting her head and shifting her cramped position to turn and watch for the first sight of the spires and roofs of London.
When the market town of Islington had come and gone along the road, the wagon rolled on to pass the Charter House and rumble through Smithfield before crossing the boundary of the Old London Wall at Newgate. They skirted the prison and came by way of Ludgate Hill into the Strand. Hester, who had been kneeling up ever since the crowded buildings and busy streets had begun to close in on all sides, caught a full glimpse of the new St Paul’s Cathedral. Said to be one of the three most beautiful churches in the world, its great dome shone like a gigantic pearl, dominating the whole skyline and visible from far afield in this year of 1721.
She was dazed by the noise and stench and bustle of the city, the number of carriages and carts and sedan chairs and the stream of people on foot. Brightly painted trade signs swung over every shop window and the barber-surgeons’ striped poles gleamed red and white in the grim colours of blood and bandages. From everywhere there came the individual singsong cries of the street-vendors, male and female, who carried baskets of lavender, oranges or fresh cherries, balanced trays of muffins on their heads, or bore creels of fish or mussels and cockles for sale on their stooped backs. Dusk was falling as Jack drove along the Strand where the lamp-lighters had been at work and the hanging lanterns, suspended by chains or slung from iron wall-brackets, gave a glow as if a hundred moons had been captured there.
‘Here we are,’ Martha announced with satisfaction, glad to be safely home.
Hester stared up at the tall gabled building with black timbers that had come alongside, its name proclaimed by the swinging sign of a male black grouse against a green ground. All the windows were bright with lights. Although a door led into the tavern from the street, Jack turned the horses into an archway at the side and they entered a cobbled yard where a second and larger entrance was conveniently located for arriving passengers. While a groom took the horses’ bridles two porters in fustian jackets came to unload the wagon. Jack lifted Hester down from the back and handed her possessions to her. She was quick to follow after Martha, who was already disappearing into the tavern.
It was like stepping into another world where the air was a blend of savoury aromas, pipe smoke, the scent of beeswaxed wood and the pungent smell of ale. Hester had thought the street noisy, but here was another kind of din. A rumble of voices and bellows of laughter resounded from the taproom; cutlery clattered in the eating-rooms and waiting-maids scuttled across the entrance hall weighed down by trays of food and drink for those in the private parlours. Following Martha into the kitchen, she was assailed by the heat of the cooking fires where poultry and joints of meat sizzled on the spits. Pan lids clanked in turn as Martha lifted each one to inspect or taste the simmering contents. Everyone stared at Hester when she was introduced as their employer’s half-sister and even the little scullery-boys paused in their work to gape at her.
Leading the way upstairs, Martha talked over her shoulder in her sharp, articulate tones. ‘Jack and I have our own parlour on this upper floor. The rest of the rooms are bedchambers and it is the same on the floor above. Female servants sleep in the attics and the men in the stable lofts. Since you are family I shall put you in a small bedchamber near ours. Apart from eating with us you’ll have no other special privileges. We’re on the go from morning to night in this place and sometimes during the night if a late coach comes in and passengers need to be fed. You’ll be up at five every morning and you’ll be thankful whenever you manage to get to bed.’ She flung open a door. ‘This is your room.’
It was tiny and the ceiling sloped sharply. The furnishings consisted of a narrow bed, a corner wash-stand, some wall-pegs for clothes and a three-legged stool. Hester had no complaint. She would have privacy and she was sure that in daylight she would have a splendid view of the London roof-tops from the dormer window.
‘I’ll like it here,’ she said genuinely, looking about her.
‘It makes no difference to me whether you do or don’t. You have come to the Heathcock to work, not to air your opinions.’ There was an underlying savagery in the words. ‘In return you’ll have a roof over your head, food for your belly and clothes for your back. You’ll also obey the general rules of good behaviour laid down by me for this house as well as two more for your own safety and well-being.’ Martha wagged a warning finger. ‘You are never to set foot in the taproom, linger in any dark corridor, or enter any of the private parlours when they are occupied by gentlemen on their own. Secondly, you’ll not venture outside the grounds of the establishment unless accompanied by me or some other responsible person. I’ve seen country innocence come to a fall too many times to risk disgrace being brought on the good name of Needham.’ Her lips curled back thinly as she saw Hester’s face tighten. ‘You can wipe that mulish look away right now, miss. Looking after yourself in the countryside is a far cry from the evil ways of the city.’ The finger wagged again threateningly. ‘Now mark well what I have said. You’ll have a hard time if you get on the wrong side of me!’ Swinging back to the doorway, she paused to issue one more instruction. ‘Come down for something to eat when you have unpacked. I shall allot your duties to you in the morning.’
Hester, who had been holding her possessions to her all the time like a shield, set them down on the bed and began to untie the knot of the bundle. Curiously, there was hope in her again after weeks of sadness and despair. It was rising to course through her veins in the most strange manner. She had a feeling that however much Martha might seek to suppress and restrain her, the means of shaping her life by her own choice lay waiting for her in this great city.
In the weeks and months that followed she was kept as busy as Martha had predicted, taking a turn at every task within the domestic regions as part of her training to be useful in every sphere. She scrubbed and cleaned and polished, washed up tankards and glasses until sometimes it seemed to her that the whole of London must be imbibing at the Heathcock. Daily she trimmed the candles in their broad-based chambersticks that stood on the hall table for guests to light their way upstairs at night. She made up beds and humped dirty linen down to the wash-house in the walled kitchen yard at the rear of the tavern. Sometimes she spent days there at a stretch, pounding down with a stick, the linen boiling away in the tubs amid steam and suds. The best days were when Martha took her to market. Holding the baskets, which were soon to be filled with purchases, she would stare around her, taking in the sights of the streets, fascinated by the fashions of the richer folk and wishing she could read the pamphlets that were sometimes thrust into her hand.
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br /> Reading and writing were skills she had never mastered. Illiteracy was common enough, the charity schools being too few in number to educate all those unable to pay for schooling. Local lessons were sometimes arranged by high-principled men and women, who did their best for the children who attended. She herself had been given such a chance in her village although nothing had come of it. Unlike her fellow pupils, most of whom were far from being as quick-witted as she knew herself to be, she found she confused letters, particularly those that were similar such as b and d, p and q and so forth and small words such as of, for and from completely defeated her. As a result she was ridiculed by the grim-faced woman who took the class, called a dunce and had such a sense of shame at her own stupidity instilled into her that at times she vomited behind the church wall when the hateful lessons were over. At home she became wild and difficult, half-mad with frustration, and a climax was reached when one day she ran away and was not found for two days. After that there were no more lessons for her. The teaching dame would not have taken her back in any case. She had found comfort in what she could do, which was to draw, and birds were her favourite subjects.
She missed them and their swooping patterns of flight more than anything else in her new surroundings. There were plenty of sparrows that came to peck in the yard, some blackbirds and a goldfinch or two, but it was the shyer birds that had flown in from the woods and meadows to the cottage garden that had been such a joy to her, featuring in almost every one of her sketches. She thought of them frequently, the corn buntings and the yellow-hammers, the skylarks, lapwings and woodpeckers and the darting blue flash of the kingfishers across a stream that lay at the end of the herb garden. How did her mother’s herb garden look now? Was it already overgrown with weeds or had the new tenant taken care of it? At this point she always shook her head to drive away the homesickness threatening to overtake her, as it still did sometimes in unguarded moments, and got on with whatever chore she had in hand.
The Silver Touch Page 1