The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin

by Tobin, Sophia

  Agnes leaned forwards, and put her hand over Alban’s. ‘He is gladder than he can say that you are here,’ she said. ‘He does not wish to be the weak link in the chain.’ Alban nodded; he understood. To create silver of true beauty needed a network of craftsmen, for there were so many skills involved: raising, casting, chasing, engraving. Although well established, Jesse would not wish to fall behind, to lose his reputation as a craftsman of worth. Thinking on it, Alban saw Agnes’s eyes widen as Jesse came into the room.

  ‘My dear?’ she said. The children had been telling stories to each other, but their murmuring voices fell silent.

  In the dimness, Jesse’s face had a ghostly pallor. His eyes seemed blank smudges of darkness. ‘That was Ovick from the Hall,’ he said. ‘Pierre Renard’s dead. Someone did for him last night, in the middle of Berkeley Square.’

  Agnes murmured a prayer under her breath.

  ‘How?’ said Alban. The word broke from him before he could suppress it. Mindful of the little ones, Jesse turned his back to them and drew his finger across his throat.

  ‘It’s time for bed, my dears,’ said Agnes. As she ushered the children out, Jesse pulled across a chair, and sat down heavily, his shoulders sagging forwards. Only when the last of them had gone did he look up at Alban. ‘I cannot believe it,’ he said. ‘I was up that way last night. I went to deliver a commission to another shop.’

  ‘But you did not call on Renard?’ said Alban.

  Jesse shook his head. ‘No, no, but,’ he blinked, and shook his head again, ‘it does not matter. Forgive me; it is the shock of it all. And things have been so unsettled recently. We are relying on him for most of our work.’

  ‘There’s still a business there,’ said Alban. ‘There will still be work.’

  Jesse smiled, a little colour returning to his cheeks. ‘I’d forgotten, cousin,’ he said, ‘how placid you are. I bring you news of a murder and you look just as if I’d remarked on the weather. If only I had your sense of serenity.’

  Alban smiled uncertainly. He took the notion of his stillness as a compliment, but he also felt it to be wrong. He was far from calm. He had a thousand questions moving across his mind.

  ‘We will call upon them when it is decent to do so,’ said Jesse. ‘Though I may need to go to the West End sooner. Mallory has some repairs which need carrying out.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘It is strange,’ he said, ‘how everything can change in an instant.’

  Agnes had slipped back into the room. ‘It’s late now,’ she said. ‘There will be enough time tomorrow to speak of all this.’ Alban saw from the expression on her face that she was concerned for Jesse.

  He did not respond to her touch on his shoulder. ‘Go up to the children,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Let us converse a little. It will bring me to life again, I promise.’

  Alban smiled a goodnight to Agnes as she turned away, and sipped his beer. It was a good few minutes before either of the men spoke. Above them small footsteps traversed the floor again and again, as though a game was being played. Eventually Alban formed one of the questions that had been moving around his mind.

  ‘Was Renard a good man?’ he asked. ‘I met him once, but I could not form an opinion.’ He kept his tone quiet, and emotionless.

  His cousin gave him a lopsided grin that emphasized the sad expression in his eyes. ‘Not really a good man,’ he said. ‘He was a flatterer, a salesman. He didn’t care too much whether he spoke truth or lies. I called him an oily bastard often enough, behind his back, of course. But his death is – inconvenient, at least. At the worst – well, I will not speak of that. He had spoken of some large commission, and without him – I’m worried that we may have a loss of income, when we need it most.’ His eyes met Alban’s questioning gaze. ‘Agnes is expecting again,’ he said.

  Alban sat back in his chair. He could not imagine another child in this dwelling: another whole presence clamouring for food and care. ‘How does she feel?’ he said.

  Jesse gave a mirthless laugh. ‘She’s pleased about it,’ he said.

  Alban knew he did not need to ask how Jesse felt. The answer lay in the silence between them. He also knew that it was the wrong time to ask about Pierre Renard, to stir up thoughts of the past when there were more immediate concerns.

  ‘Alban,’ said Jesse. ‘I worry for them. I am so very tired.’ He looked up at Alban’s face. ‘Do not tell me I will get better.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ said Alban. ‘Sleep. We have work to do tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jesse. ‘And we’ll have a gallon of porter, for your handprint remains on my wall, so we must honour the tradition and drink your health.’

  Alban stared at him. ‘Still there,’ he said, remembering his last day in London all those years ago, his cousin chalking his hand, and him laying his hand on the wall, as was the custom when a craftsman left the workshop, the handprint left there to await his return. He had forgotten it, and at Jesse’s words the past seemed to breathe over him again, filling his head with a hundred memories and feelings that made him afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed his emotions.

  When Jesse had gone Alban dragged out his truckle bed from its place by the wall, took his boots off and lay down by the embers of the fire. He felt weariness weigh his limbs down. There was too much to consider and he pushed away the concerns crowding his mind. Instead he focused on the journey he had just made; on how far from him London had seemed ever since he had returned to Chester all those years ago.

  Here at last, he thought, breathing out.

  My silver will be marked with the leopard’s head, for London.

  A doubt moved fast across his mind, like a single magpie seen from the corner of the eye, flying too fast to be greeted, a harbinger of sorrow gone in a flash: I’ve come too late, perhaps. London is for a young man to seek his fortune, and I am not that.

  He sat up, and drank back the remainder of the beer. Its tang pleased him, and sitting in the warm, he could comfortably reason with himself. What would be the point in coming so far, to bring himself low like this? He had made the resolution that, in London, he would be a new man. He would go to Bond Street with his cousin, present his condolences and his compliments. Even with Renard dead, the business would go on. He would do whatever was necessary – bow and scrape, if need be. Though he doubted his ability to do that; the idea was more palatable than the reality.

  He had not asked, though. He had not asked who would be there at the shop; he had not even asked whether she lived. The question came to the front of his mind, for at the first mention of Renard’s name it had flared into life, from ashes he had long thought cold.

  What of her? he thought. What of Mary?

  He pulled the coarse blanket up around him. Forget it, he told himself. The business is what I am here for. The rest can wait, for it has already waited long enough. He felt the tension leave him, his back unfurling. He was practised at pushing away his worries and tonight his exhaustion assisted him. As he lay still his eyelids drooped as though weighted down with lead.

  He slept deeply, and dreamed many dreams. When he woke the next morning, all he could remember was the sound of a child’s laughter.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  15th May, 1792

  A most disagreeable encounter today. No, I am wrong to say that, though I do not wish to cross it through and spoil the page. It was source of both pleasure, and pain. Whilst on Bond Street, seeing Mrs Jacobs into her carriage, I glimpsed a lady I once knew, who – it pains me even to write it – I once thought would be my bride. Her name then was Miss Laycock, though I hazard to say I knew her as Sarah.

  She was the daughter of a wealthy mercer, but she had charms beyond her father’s money. Miss Laycock had such grace and softness, that within a week of knowing her, I formed the strong intention of making her my wife, though there were scores of suitors buzzing around her at the time.

  All did not proceed as I wished, though she looked kindly upon me. Her father was a rough man; he pretende
d that his uncouth manners were a virtue, calling himself a ‘plain speaker’. He and I could not agree on the terms of the marriage, or anything else, if truth be told. Not long afterwards, she married a mercer approved by her father, his name being Blackwell, and I met the woman who is now my wife. Mary’s father, a maker of gold and silver boxes, was desperate to be rid of her. He persuaded me, and I, still raw with regret for my lost love, made the marriage more quickly than I should have done.

  You can imagine with what regret I saw the former Miss Laycock, now Mrs Blackwell, come down from her carriage followed by a little train of children, two boys and two girls. She looked most devoted to them, and they were a pretty picture: dressed in the finest clothes, all of the children most handsome and well formed. Although she looked a little older than I remembered, there was still that softness of expression that I had once cherished and hoped to make my own. When she saw me, she moved quickly on through the crowds. I did not wish to follow her and trouble her; and I needed a moment to regain my composure; so I was able to inspect the equipage. I have not seen such a fine pair of horses for many a day, both dappled grey, and perfectly matched. All of these things added to my keen regret.

  As she watched her mistress sleep, Joanna longed for a rummer of something to take the chill off: garnet-coloured liquid, potent and purifying, rolling down her throat into the depths of her empty stomach. It would be something to satisfy the hunger: a sop to throw to the black demon roaming its way around her belly.

  It had been a bad day. As she had carried in the breakfast tray she had found Harriet, pale and still, sitting straight up in bed, her eyes wide open, her stare fixed. Joanna had almost cried out with fear, and set the tray down heavily. But once Harriet was roused by the clatter of porcelain and silver, she had begun to weep.

  ‘What is wrong, madam?’ said Joanna.

  ‘I am forgotten so soon,’ said Harriet. ‘I did think he would return, and yet he has not.’

  Joanna said nothing; she was concerned with rearranging the tray. She wondered how Harriet had such a wrong-headed notion of what a wife was; had she really thought she would be the subject of constant devotion?

  Later Joanna had taken the tray downstairs. ‘When I first came here, there was talk of us going to Reismore for Christmas,’ she said to Mrs Holland, the housekeeper. ‘A change of scenery would be welcome to me.’

  ‘That decaying lump of masonry?’ said the butler, who had served as a footman on that estate. ‘Unlikely The master’s valet says madam’s family is refusing to pay out half of her dowry – and that is what would have furnished your room, along with most of the others in the house. It’s lucky that Mr Chichester has his aunt to lend him this place.’

  ‘Some luck for me. How am I supposed to run a house of this size with just eleven servants?’ said Mrs Holland.

  Harriet had remained melancholy all day, refusing to go out. She wrote a letter, and read listlessly, casting various books aside. In the afternoon, Joanna had sent a note to the master, telling him of Harriet’s state. She had thought he might come, to calm Harriet’s agitation. But he had not.

  He had gone out at eight o’clock. At the window of Harriet’s room, Joanna had watched as Mr Chichester had left the house, descending the front steps without looking back. She glimpsed his pale face, moon-like at the window of the carriage, and sought some meaning in his look. But the uneven pane of glass in the carriage door had shifted the light of the flaming torch that blazed, suspended from the front wall of the house, and she was unable to make out his expression, or report back a moderated version of it to her mistress.

  It had taken her hours to get Harriet to sleep. Like a fractious child, the girl kept rising up from her bed, fighting unconsciousness. Now that she slept, Joanna regretted the promise she had made to sit with her until the master came home.

  She had listened all evening to the sounds beyond the house; horses’ hooves as riders rode hard around the square; the carriages; the distant voices of the London night: imagining revellers and street sellers, drunks and vagabonds. She thought that the watch must have already done several circuits of the square, and the noise had been damped down now these two hours. From the distant chime of the clock in the hallway she knew that it was long past midnight. The carriage had returned to its mews; the link-boy would guide the master home through the London streets, carrying his blazing torch before him. The only light in the room was the flickering illumination provided by a small fire dying in the grate.

  Joanna got up and, bending over the fire, lit a half-burnt candle in a chamberstick taken from the dressing set. In her hand, the silver felt like ice, its ornate surface reminding her of Monsieur Renard, for it had come from his shop. A sardonic smile twitched her lips at the thought of him. He was full of sugared words, so much so that the master had taken to sending him straight to Harriet rather than suffering his compliments. Whenever Joanna thought of Renard’s narrow, handsome face, she remembered that strange curl his lips had, as though whatever he saw was a dumb show for his own amusement, and other people merely his puppets. It was for this reason that Joanna didn’t care much for him, even though he had slipped her a trinket here or there, to ensure her favour. She didn’t bother to tell him that she never promoted any tradesman’s cause. When he had invited her to his house on Bond Street to partake of a dish of chocolate, she had gone, but only out of curiosity, for she had wished to see his wife, a woman she knew a little of.

  She put down the candle and watched the flame, remembering an argument of long ago: her first employer, an old woman who had reprimanded her for burning too many candles. It seemed that her life since then had been a construction of small lies, excuses and alibis to make it bearable. She thought of her lover, dead long ago. Stephen, you promised you would always work in the world for me, even though you are with God. It was too much to think of, all at once; in the darkness, the grief blindsided her. It was because she had felt weak today, foggy-headed; tomorrow, she would be her old self, sharp and clear-sighted.

  Her eyes were closing in the gloom and her head was nodding forwards when she heard footsteps on the pavement outside and the familiar voice of her master. She had promised she would wake Harriet on his return. But now she longed to sleep, and knew his arrival would only bring trouble. Sick with tiredness, she could have wept with exasperation.

  She only dallied a moment, then was spared the decision. Harriet sat up with a little cry. Joanna rose and watched her nervously. ‘Madam?’ she said, keeping her tone low and neutral.

  ‘What time on the clock?’ said Harriet. Her voice had not lost the throaty rasp she had had from crying.

  ‘It’s about one, madam,’ said Joanna.

  ‘Did I hear my husband?’ said Harriet.

  Joanna nodded.

  The gesture seemed to startle Harriet into action. She swung herself out of bed. Joanna hurried to put the little silk slippers on her feet, and felt Harriet’s hand on her shoulder, its coldness soaking through the material of her dress. Silently, Harriet padded over to the door and pulled it open. She gave a little gasp of exertion as she did it. At the sign of weakness Joanna felt suddenly afraid for the girl.

  She followed Harriet out on to the landing. In the darkness, the entrance hall seemed as vast as an abyss. Far below there was a cloud of light, where Oliver the footman stood, holding a branch of candles. In the gloom, Mr Chichester was taking off his gloves.

  ‘Love never comes in through the front door,’ Harriet whispered with a little smile, as though to herself. Certain that Harriet was about to succumb to some kind of hysterical crying fit, Joanna took a step towards her, but before she reached her Harriet had leaned over the balustrade and said in a stage whisper, ‘Nicholas!’

  There was no response, and she whispered again, more urgently. ‘Nicholas!’

  Dutifully, Oliver did not look up, only held his arm out for his master’s cloak. After what seemed like minutes, Nicholas Chichester turned his face up to his wife. He took off h
is hat. ‘Madam?’ he said.

  Harriet stood, frozen. Joanna sensed that she had finally woken up; that her training had reminded her that her behaviour was indelicate: calling downstairs like an ill-trained servant.

  Trailed by Oliver carrying the candelabrum, Mr Chichester began to climb the spiral staircase, one hand gripping the rail, his head bowed. His approach was slow, and Joanna watched the glint of Oliver’s eyes as he held the candles before them.

  Harriet put her hands to her head, and gave a panicky little start as she touched the unruly mass of curls. Then she tried to flatten her creased gown. Joanna moved back against the wall into the shadows, knowing she could not help her. The master loved order and neatness; Joanna would have laid a wager that, before her marriage, Harriet’s mother had made sure her daughter never had a hair out of place. She had even ordered a portrait of her, a portrait she had given to the master: the painted image of an ideal dynastic beauty.

  As he reached the top of the stairs, Chichester looked his wife up and down dispassionately. ‘You are déshabillé,’ he said.

  Harriet paused, as though unsure of what to do; then she came forwards, and placed her hands, palms down, on his chest, so they rose and fell with his breathing. ‘Will you not come to me tonight?’ she said, a girlish little curl to her voice, higher in pitch than usual.

  Joanna saw his lips part in surprise, and heard his breath catch in the back of his throat. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I will not.’

  Joanna’s eyes met Oliver’s, and though each of them had the steady, unreadable gaze of the good servant, they sensed the shock in each other.

  With an attempt at coquetry, Harriet put her hand to her husband’s face, then tilted her palm up and touched the skin of her wrist and upper arm against his jaw and neck: the softest skin, where a man would wish to kiss her.