Digby opened his mouth to call for more porter, but for the first time in a long while, he’d lost the taste for it.
‘Mary,’ said the voice, a woman’s voice. ‘Mary.’
Mary sat up in bed. Her cousin was standing over her, dressed in her cloak, with her bonnet on, a small locking box on the floor beside her.
‘Oh my God,’ cried Mary. ‘I did not lock the house up. Where are my keys?’
‘Here. And I am glad you did not,’ said Avery. ‘It made it easier for your girl Ellen to let me in.’
‘I was sitting by the fire in the parlour,’ said Mary. ‘Who carried me to the bed?’ A single candle was burning on the table next to her.
‘I am afraid I cannot answer that,’ said Avery. ‘I have just arrived. I am sorry if I startled you. Your girl had just let me in when we heard you cry out.’
‘I did not know you were coming today,’ said Mary.
‘I received Mallory’s letter and I barely stayed another moment,’ said Avery, with a wry smile. ‘It was a perfect excuse to leave the dullness of my brother’s shop. There was not time to send ahead. Besides, it was not hard to find my way here from the White Bear. What a crush Piccadilly is this time of day.’ She smiled, and held her arms out.
Mary embraced her, but felt disorientated as she stood. ‘I must call for some refreshment for you.’
‘Your girl is seeing to that,’ said Avery, untying her bonnet. ‘And I will sleep in with you tonight, seeing how I found you. What were you dreaming of?’
‘Pierre,’ said Mary.
In her dream, Pierre’s blood had been as thick as molten candle wax, the white skin of his throat so delicate that the knife had slit through it as though it was silk. The gaping wound was pumping, his strong heart propelling his blood into the void, his face resting in a slick of scarlet that spread wider by the moment, an expression of panicked astonishment on his face. He had stared at her, his eyes growing duller as the minutes passed, until they looked like those of the fish Ellen had cut up in the kitchen that day. And she had watched him, doing nothing, feeling nothing. ‘Did I call his name?’ she asked Avery.
‘No,’ said Avery. ‘You called out “forgive me”.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
12th June, 1792
The summer will be here soon; my patrons will leave their town houses and journey to clean air and country pursuits. I have no country estate to flee to yet; I will stay here in the stinking city, with too much time to think as we restock the shop.
I am glad, at least, that Grisa improves in his manner with customers. I can hardly flatter the ladies and gentlemen better myself. He is a devoted and loyal employee, who has never stolen from me. Early in his employ, I made him drink with me one evening: a lot of fine wine that quickly overcame him. He confessed to having been born very poor, in Southwark, and said that he had not always behaved as well as he ought – how dramatically he flashed his eyes at me. It amused me greatly, for he had led me to believe that he was of a respectable family of French origin. Now, he is bound to me by my knowledge of him; I have never spoken of it since. He told me he had saved himself by becoming a dancing master at a small school in Stockwell. That, I can believe.
The melancholy toll of a single bell sliced through the bustle of the London streets. It was late afternoon, and already the light was fading, the shadows thick and vaporous. Here and there, candles were lit in the windows of the shops, stars of light to attract customers to their firmaments. But not at Pierre Renard’s shop on Bond Street.
‘Listen,’ said Mary to Mallory, turning her piece of rosemary in her gloved hands. ‘I can hear the bell. Surely that is not the bell of St James’s? It is too far?’
Mallory did not answer; she only flinched in irritation. Beside her, Avery looked much more acceptable: neatly but plainly dressed in black, her neutral expression shaded with kindness, she gently handed the weeping Grisa a new handkerchief. Grisa shook it out with a flourish, momentarily pausing from his grief to do so. ‘He is moved to tears much too easily,’ said Mallory.
They were seated in the parlour, and Pierre’s open coffin lay before them. Mary tried not to look at him. His wound was hidden by a large, perfectly tied neckcloth that was whiter than his face. The dark shadows of the box defined him, and his cheeks were strangely hollow. The line of his mouth at last showed his cruelty. In rest it lay in a faint sneer, though she wondered if she was the only one who saw it.
Dr Taylor was instructing Ellen to go and get some glasses of red wine. He had followed faithfully the instructions of Pierre’s will regarding the funeral, though it had taken a day or two more to arrange it than anyone would have wished. Mary was grateful to him; he had ordered the black gloves, the rosemary and the mourning rings. She knew it was her duty to remember such details; yet she only dully observed and accepted them. She watched him instruct Ellen, speaking with a gentle authority, and noticed the girl’s unquestioning respect for him.
Mallory leaned towards her. ‘What did the inscription cost?’ she said, in a harsh undertone.
‘It is all settled in the will,’ said Mary. ‘Pierre specified it. It is not a large funeral; there is no procession from the livery hall. His only firm wish was that he should be buried in St James’s, with a stone inside the church.’
‘He’d have been put in St George’s, Hanover Square, if he could,’ Mallory whispered. ‘Lucky for us they don’t do burials there. He can’t even die without making an exhibition out of it.’ She glanced at the coffin, her eyes gleaming with venom.
‘Do stop glaring, Mall,’ murmured Avery.
‘He did not think he would die now,’ said Mary softly. ‘It was part of his great plan; to be a gentleman.’
Had he lived longer, Mary was sure there would have been a much more lavish funeral procession, perhaps from Goldsmiths’ Hall; and a memorial designed by him, probably in marble, a refined design in the latest taste, with urns and swags of bellflowers. But because he had died much too soon there was nothing but the sketchiest of details to fulfil, and a grave in the prestigious church. Of course there would be some inscription, he had paid for it, but it would be plain. I could almost weep for him, she thought; but she could not. It reminded her that there was once a time when she thought she had used up all of her tears, crying for Eli, then for her parents.
She did not tell Mallory that Pierre had not bought a double grave, so that his wife might join him; when she had asked Dr Taylor this, he had only looked at the floor, and shaken his head, unable to meet her eyes.
Taylor had asked her no questions about the funeral, and she couldn’t blame him: she had accepted the role of helpless victim. She knew her appearance couldn’t be helping matters: the grey shadows beneath her eyes, the suddenly visible bones in her décolletage. With careful kindness, Taylor had offered her a draught to calm her, but she did not want to be drugged, and said she did not need it. Controlled for so long, she felt that dissolving her defences would lead to God knows what. Whatever lived beneath her pretence of serenity frightened her; she preferred to occupy the space between her imagination and reality, a silent watcher.
The door opened, and Dr Taylor greeted Mr Exham, Pierre’s engraver. He looked disturbed, and after greeting the ladies, he returned to Dr Taylor and began conversing with him in a low voice, but with some urgency. Mary saw Mallory look in their direction, but after a few minutes she sighed and leaned towards her sister. ‘I cannot hear them,’ she said, ‘with Grisa snivelling so loudly.’
Everyone was glad to see Ellen re-enter, carrying glasses of red wine on a silver salver. She spoiled the effect by unloading them with indecent swiftness, averting her eyes from the coffin, then running from the room, letting the door go so that it closed with an incongruous crash.
Beneath the spire of St James’s Church Mary could not help but remember that she had come to this spot once as a bride, and that this day, like her wedding day, had a kind of unreality about it. On this winter’s evening she had a little m
ore composure than she had had as a bride, when her fear had seeped out of her as irritation. But now she lacked her father, and it was this loss, and the others that had accompanied it, which pierced her numbness, and set the dull ache of grief going in her body.
In St James’s the service passed quickly, the priest’s words a ceaseless murmur. In the north churchyard stones had been prised up to gain access to the vault beneath the church. When one of the undertakers slipped on the steps and the coffin descended with a crash, there was a collective gasp from the onlookers, for though none of Pierre’s patrons had come, many of his outworkers had (‘They all wish to be seen,’ said Mallory, ‘so they are not overlooked as the business goes forwards.’). Mary noticed that Exham was standing towards the back, glancing to his right and left, and even occasionally behind him, as though he was looking for someone. It struck her as strange that he should take his handkerchief out and wipe his brow, as though he was sweating in the cool of the evening.
When the ceremony was over, Mary noticed Alban Steele, his cousin Jesse, and Jesse’s wife Agnes. It was Agnes who came forwards first. Her face, Mary thought, seemed to reflect the dull winter light, or perhaps it was just the warmth shining from her eyes. She took Mary’s hands, then kissed her cheeks. ‘Every blessing on you,’ she said.
‘You are kind,’ Mary said. ‘I have not seen you in years.’
‘When did you last come to the City?’ said Agnes. ‘My husband tells me you rarely venture from Bond Street.’
It was when I said goodbye to Eli, Mary thought, and the sharpness of the memory silenced her, the pain of it showing on her face so fiercely that Agnes and Avery looked at each other in dismay.
‘You must come and have a glass of wine, Mrs Chamac,’ said Avery, seeking to break the silence, as Mary struggled with her emotions.
‘That is most kind of you,’ said Agnes. ‘I must speak to my husband.’
Alban came forwards and bowed, his hat in his hand. Mary felt that his eyes were searching her face for something, and, aware of her pallor, she glanced away from his scrutiny and saw Exham, standing with his back to her, looking up and down the thoroughfare in the near-darkness.
‘My condolences, Mrs Renard,’ said Alban.
‘I hope Mrs Chamac will forgive me for my silence,’ said Mary, looking at him finally. ‘She mentioned my last visit to the City. It was years ago, and I had almost forgot it: the last time I saw my brother. These past few days, I have thought of him more than ever.’
Alban’s eyes were full of sorrow. ‘He was a blessed soul,’ he said. ‘His memory should give you strength.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘But you do not understand at all.’ Her widow’s veil fluttered in the wind; she pushed it back with one gloved hand.
‘I understand some things,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘You must take care of yourself. You look as though you have not eaten for days.’
‘I have strength enough yet,’ she said.
‘When I met you here, long ago,’ he said quietly, ‘there was such joy in you, such spirit, as there was in your brother. I believe you worthy of happiness in this life. I would wish to see the day you recover it.’ He bowed to her as his cousins approached, then he, Jesse and Agnes moved away swiftly, pausing to speak briefly to the priest.
‘It’s a cold evening,’ said Mallory ‘We’d best hurry on.’
Mary stood still, and Avery came and put an arm around her.
‘If you are thinking of Pierre, do not dwell,’ said Mallory. ‘He thought of no one but himself, on a good day. He thought himself such a great man, but where are all his worthy clients?’ She looked around at the emptying churchyard. ‘It’s your life you need to worry about, troublesome bastard that he was.’ She glared at the warden who stared at them, pale with shock. ‘And what are you looking at, Reuben Savery? Your Christian duty extend to prying on conversations, does it?’
‘Hush yourself,’ said Mary. She watched Taylor speaking to his wife, with the occasional glance in her direction. Several times she had caught him looking at her, as though he was on the brink of saying something momentous he couldn’t find the words for.
‘I believe Dr Taylor is worried about the will,’ she said. ‘It will be bad for me, I know it. I did not do my duty; there is no child.’
‘And you should be grateful for it,’ said Mallory. ‘A child of Pierre’s would have sent you half-mad with the pretence of loving it. Though I grant you, it would have guaranteed you a roof over your head.’
‘Had I done so,’ said Mary, ‘our parents might still be living, perhaps even Eli. Pierre promised me things would be different between us if we had our own children.’
‘Promises were worth nothing from his lips,’ said Mallory.
‘I would have loved the child,’ said Mary. ‘No matter what you say.’
Mallory shook her head. ‘Love comes too easily to you; and hate too easily to me,’ she said. Then she frowned. ‘What’s Edward Digby doing here?’
‘Who?’ said Mary.
She only saw him for an instant, a man with red hair, as he turned and walked away, quickly, and she remembered that the man who had taken her away as they carried the kitchen table on to the street had red hair too.
But at that moment she heard a shout, and saw Exham break into a run. He was pursuing another man, that much was clear; but she saw only a back, retreating into the winter darkness.
‘What was the matter with Mr Exham?’ said Mary to Dr Taylor, as she entered the house. It was already filling with visitors, and from the parlour upstairs she could hear the hum of voices.
‘Oh, nothing of any matter, Mrs Renard,’ said Taylor. His wife, Amelia, stood beside him.
‘We must speak with you, my dear Mrs Renard,’ she said. ‘Privately.’
They moved from room to room, but every corner of the house seemed to be filled. Mary heard the lodger in her top room banging on the floor, protesting at the noise. Eventually, in exasperation, she took the Taylors to the kitchen. Ellen was upstairs attending to the visitors.
‘Come now, James,’ said Amelia. ‘Mrs Renard would care for the truth, I am sure. Give it to her quick and clean, like an honourable blow.’
Mary looked at the woman in the half-light of the room. So often Amelia Taylor had seemed cold and unfeeling, but now she looked straight at her with a quick and humane comprehension Mary had never noticed before.
‘I am sorry to speak to you in these circumstances,’ said Taylor. ‘But we are to read the will, and I thought you should be warned of the contents. Mr Renard has specified me and some gentlemen of my acquaintance as his trustees. He did not wish to make it a burden for you, I am sure.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary.
‘There is less money than we thought,’ said Taylor, looking uncomfortable. ‘But you are to have a small portion to maintain you, and your husband has honoured your marriage settlement; the furniture, porcelain and books are all yours. You are allowed to remain in this dwelling for the term of your life. But, it was his wish for the firm to continue. He stated that his cousin should inherit the business, his only living relative, and that he be joined in matrimony to you, if you both wished, but,’ he rushed on, catching her eye, ‘when I wrote to the cousin, I was told that he had died some months ago.’
‘Oh,’ said Mary. The relief unhooked the muscles in her shoulders; she had been holding herself as though she was about to be struck.
‘Pierre had also written a codicil, very recently, stating that his apprentice Benjamin be included in the firm, and that he be made a partner in it, once he has reached his majority. It states that if there be no children – as there are no children – the business will pass to Benjamin on your death. I and the other trustees are to act as guardians, in a sense, of your fortune and marriage.’
‘What he means to say,’ said Amelia, ‘is that their approval is needed, if you remarry.’ Her gaze had a hard sympathy to it. ‘Your inheritance may be revoked if you do not marry as they wish
; you would have no roof over your head.’
‘Madam.’ Taylor’s tone was grief-stricken, not harsh. ‘There is no need to say this. I am sure Mrs Renard would not act in any way that would cause such a thing to occur.’
‘Benjamin?’ said Mary. ‘To inherit the business?’ She felt dull-headed, as though there was some lesson she was struggling to learn.
‘Benjamin is little more than a child,’ said Taylor. ‘We will keep him in check. Pierre loved you dearly, and he has asked me to ensure that you are safe, to protect you as he, now, cannot.’
Amelia put an arm around Mary, and Mary inhaled her unfamiliar scent, of sweat and damp sable. The gentleness of the gesture reminded her of Alban’s hands on her arms a few days before. The kindness of it had shivered through her. After years during which the only physical contact she experienced was in the clammy brutality of her marriage bed, the remembrance of a kind touch had been lost; she had missed it without knowing it.
‘Why should he have done such a thing?’ said Amelia, in a whisper.
But Mary knew and she could imagine the look on her husband’s face as he had written the words, one of bitter satisfaction.
One evening, carefully, slowly, as though luxuriating in it, he had told her the story of the woman Sarah; how he had loved her, and she should have been his wife, but her father had prevented the match. How he had taken on the boy Benjamin, her nephew, as some kind of cure for the past, to be linked to her still (though he did not say that last part; only presented himself as a man of charity and kindness, a veritable saint).
‘Am I like her?’ she had said. Even now, she did not know why she had asked that question.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Selfish, and wilful.’
What a joy it must have been, she thought, for him to write the words in his will. Now, neither she nor Sarah could ever escape his memory. But before she could say anything, there was the sound of raised voices from upstairs.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 12