He tried to pick out what had triggered it. When he had turned Renard’s body over with his foot, he had still been the same old Digby, rooted in the world. Perhaps it had been that moment at St James’s, when he saw Mary Renard glance at the sky, her eyes full of some emotion he somehow recognized; perhaps it was the feeling of Renard’s watch in his hand as he had walked home from the Red Lion after Maynard had threatened him. No, there was no one moment; it had all happened in degrees.
You and I are trapped, he thought, Mary’s face before his eyes. We are mourning what was, and what could have been. And he knew, in himself, in a place beyond bitterness, that there was a kind of holiness about her, something within her that had remained untouched by the world. She was not a woman he wanted to possess; he wanted to protect her.
He remembered the smell of meat and wine on Maynard’s breath, the driven look in his eyes, and wondered what really motivated him.
He wrapped the blanket tight around him, trying to gain some warmth from the rough material. If I watch her, he thought, if I try and put the puzzle together, perhaps I can save myself, and her too. Perhaps we can both be free.
‘I will have to Londonize myself,’ said Avery, smiling broadly as she sipped the dish of tea Mary had just handed her. ‘The moment I set my foot on London ground I realized I need a dozen new caps just to get me through the day. I have already been to the draper’s and used your name, my love. I am in jest. Of course I am in jest! I have come to be your respectable companion. I will wear only this dull rusty black dress and fade into the corners of rooms.’
She was trying to lighten the atmosphere, and she did it well. She won a smile from Mary: a sweet, effort-full smile. Both of them were pale, with shadows beneath their eyes.
The last few nights had been difficult. When Mary went to sleep, Avery would sit with her, watching her, stroking her hair and putting the candle out. Mary seemed to sleep peacefully enough for the first hour or so but then would wake screaming, beating at the locked door of the chamber with her fists. ‘You are fearsome strong,’ said Avery, the first time. ‘This great old door rattles in its frame.’
‘You should leave me,’ said Mary. ‘I will wake myself, and go back to sleep. I do not wish to be a burden to anyone: I wish to fend for myself.’
She did not say so, but now she imagined she saw Eli everywhere. Standing on the window seat of the parlour, watching the street below, his head golden in the sunlight. Swinging on the banister at the top of the stairs. Seeing him was a comfort, but with only one drawback. In her visions, he always had his back to her; she never glimpsed his face. As he watched Bond Street she could sense his absorption, see the little movements of him as he looked at things, but he never turned and smiled at her.
Below, the shop bell rang. Mary flinched. Avery watched her.
‘Do you not wish to venture out a little more?’ she said gently. ‘Mallory tells me you confine yourself to the house overmuch.’
‘She is probably right,’ said Mary. ‘Pierre preferred me to stay indoors, unless he could take me somewhere. And I was always a dormouse. I am a little like Eli, I think. He liked things to stay the same, would walk around the house touching this and that, as though by rote. It comforted him.’
‘I remember when he came to stay,’ said Avery. ‘Your mother said you and he were companions in everything.’
‘We were,’ said Mary. Tears came to her eyes. The grief welled up in her; one light scratch of the surface would release it. ‘When he died, and then my mother and father, I felt as though the very roots of my life had been pulled up. I have been in darkness, since then, I think. Except for those first few days after I heard of his death: when I woke in the mornings, before I remembered, I would hear Eli’s footsteps. They were as clear as the church bell. I would think he was there, just for a moment; and when I remembered, it seemed worse somehow.’
‘It is perfectly natural,’ said Avery, taking her hands, ‘to grieve in such a way.’
‘To talk about him is a joy,’ said Mary. ‘But I cannot forget. . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I chose Pierre. Eli would not have died so soon, if I had not made that choice. And having done so, I found that I could not honour it; every hour, it ate at me. My father told me, and so did Pierre, that it was my one duty to be a good wife. But I could not.’ The tears were drying on her cheeks; she looked at Avery, an unflinching gaze that reminded her cousin of Mallory ‘I did not have it in me.’
‘Mary,’ said Avery. ‘You have not done anything.’
‘But I think I have,’ said Mary.
She saw then that she had her cousin’s attention; for Avery paused, and in her blue eyes Mary saw, for the first time, a trace of uncertainty.
‘In my early days as a wife,’ said Mary, ‘I kept my old character, I believe. When my parents were forced to take Eli away, I spoke to Pierre, I made my anger clear. But he had his methods for quietening me; I will not speak of them. Before long, I cared only to protect myself – not to anger him more than was necessary. I looked only to soften his temper, and his sense that I had been unfair to him. One day, a letter came from my mother. Pierre was not at home when the maid brought it, so I took it and opened it, before he could see it. The moment I saw her hand, I could not help myself.
‘She wrote that Eli was unwell. That she would never have written, but that he was near death, and that his searching gaze bore such power that even her prayers could not overcome it. That she wished only that he and I could see each other again. Foolish wretch that I was, I took it to Pierre. I thought her words would move him.’
She sat still. It had been in the parlour; Pierre’s face twisted with disgust. She had waited until the evening, hoping that he would have made many sales that day, putting him in a good mood. But when she handed him the letter, she saw his expression change.
‘Am I always to be haunted by that idiot child?’ he said. ‘By God, you will never learn. You will never know your duty to me.’
‘He is my brother,’ she said.
His movement was swift, silent, slicing through the air. She felt the breath of it before she felt his hand around her wrist, twisting her arm behind her, pushing her towards the fire. ‘You will not yield in any other way but through pain,’ he said. For a moment she thought he intended to burn her to death, and it surprised her that she did not feel afraid. Tiny drops of sweat broke out on her face as she gazed into the flames, her eyes stinging. She was silent; in that moment, she thought – or was it only now she thought this? – she longed for death. Below, the shop bell rang. Grisa was still serving customers, customers gazing in admiration at the smooth, cold silver, lined up on the shelves.
‘You are mine,’ Pierre said. His voice was thin, high, wheedling; the voice of a teenage boy. ‘You will always be mine, in life and in death.’ His hand tightened on her wrist. ‘You will honour at least one of the promises you made me,’ he said. ‘To obey me.’
Mary had to remind herself that she was not there, in that distant time. She held the arms of her chair, the smooth wood, and looked at her cousin’s face.
‘And I did,’ she said. ‘I made no effort to escape. He burnt the letter. He put a poker through it; I watched until every last fragment of it had turned into ashes. He held me there, as I wept. And now, what a coward I seem, looking on at this distance. At the time, I felt tied to him; bonds that no one on earth could untie. But now, I think, why did I not leave? Find some way to reach my brother, my family? Do you understand? I could have changed everything.’
‘It is easy to say that now,’ said Avery. ‘But you do not consider the obstacles that lay in your way. Your parents would not have thanked you; you would have disgraced them.’
‘Better that, than to become what I am now. Weak, weighed down with bitterness and sorrow. I have no Christian heart. Bound up in my own guilt, in my hatred. There were days, weeks, when I lived more in my own mind than in this world. And my imaginings, so dark. Waking, screaming with all the fury I should have s
hown him in life. Knowing nothing about the preceding hours. What have I done? What am I capable of?’
‘Do not say it,’ said Avery. ‘Do not.’
Mary leaned forwards. ‘I see Pierre’s death,’ she said. ‘Too vividly.’
‘Hush,’ said Avery, and she looked serious, glancing over her shoulder before she continued. ‘You may say it to me. But do not say it aloud, any more.’
‘But it is the truth,’ said Mary.
‘There is no need for the truth now, when it can harm,’ said Avery. ‘You have done nothing, Mary. You are incapable of harming anyone.’ She leaned close again, so that she could whisper. ‘I wish you could have done it,’ she said. ‘For Eli. For him alone. But you did not. That is all I know, and that is all I need to know.’ She sat back, drummed her hands on her knees with nervous intensity. ‘We will not speak of it again. You need some fresh air; we will go to the park today. I have decided it.’
When they returned from their walk, the door connecting the shop to the house was open. Beyond it, Grisa was carefully arranging rings, and Benjamin was leaning against the doorway of the back room, staring at Mary, a cloth in his hands. He no longer shied away from looking at her directly, although his glance had a strange quality to it, as though she was insubstantial and he looked through her. He was standing taller too, not bowing forwards, and not responding with a jump to Grisa’s every command.
‘I saw Mr Renard last night, madam,’ he said.
Grisa stopped his work and glared at Benjamin.
‘What do you mean?’ said Mary.
‘I was putting things away in the back room,’ said Benjamin. ‘And he walked past the door. Just walked past, without a glance in my direction. When I came out, he was gone.’ He took a step towards her. ‘It was him, madam, it was most certainly him. He wanted to check on things. That’s what I think.’
He continued to wipe his hands, slowly and deliberately. When Mary looked at Grisa he shook his head.
‘Shake your head if you choose, Mr G,’ said Benjamin. ‘It will all come to me in the end.’
Mary stood, and watched him. His expressions, his tone of voice, his very movements seemed to be a grotesque imitation of her late husband’s. Revulsion rose in her.
‘Benjamin,’ she said, and her voice was clear and hard. The apprentice did not trouble himself to speak; he only raised his eyebrows. She held his gaze. ‘Mark me,’ she said, ‘will or no will, you raise your voice to me again and I will beat you out of doors.’
Her heart was beating hard, the rage thrilling through her. He stared at her, and said nothing. Avery put her hand on Mary’s arm.
‘Mary, come now. The Taylors will be here at any moment.’
But Mary would not turn away while Benjamin still stared at her. He could not keep his eyes on hers; after only a moment, his gaze flickered to the floor.
It was half past seven on the clock. Dr Taylor spoke interminably about recent events on the continent. As he droned on Amelia shivered feverishly, and a small, cloudy drop of perspiration trickled its way down her face. ‘Damn it, James,’ she snapped eventually, and Mary realized with surprise that the shiver had been one of annoyance.
Dr Taylor seemed unmoved that his wife had taken on the habit of swearing so enjoyed by aristocratic ladies; perhaps, thought Mary, it was a point of pride for him. She thought of swearing at Pierre, with his labyrinthine sense of grievance.
‘Patience, my dear,’ said Taylor. He turned to Mary. ‘I have been discussing matters with Grisa,’ he said. ‘He thinks it best, for reasons of security, if he moves into the house. He has couched his request most reasonably. If it would be bearable for you, perhaps . . .’
It surprised Mary, the overwhelming surge of gratitude she felt. ‘I think it a good idea,’ she said. ‘It will be much more secure; I lost the last of my lodgers a day after the funeral. He may have two rooms on the second floor; we will take the parlour and the two rooms upstairs. It is quite convenient.’
‘You are most gracious,’ said Taylor. ‘I would not have put you to such inconvenience. If the living arrangements are to be made so, I will arrange for a builder to come in. Your floor should have its own access; perhaps another wall, with a stronger door, for decency’s sake, that you can lock at night as well as the inner door.’
‘Oh, James,’ said Amelia. ‘Why would she wish to be walled in?’
He said nothing; but something about the quiet, regretful way he stared forwards showed Mary he would not be moved on the subject. She glanced at Avery’s face and saw disquiet there.
Anger stirred in her again, the sea-change, as though there was water within her, rushing and switching direction. She thought of the roiling Thames. As a child she had looked at its waves from the riverbank, her mother and father behind her, Mallory holding Eli’s hand and pointing at scavengers digging the liquid mud on the foreshore. Eli, laughing, pausing only to scoop some up and try and taste it, Mary rushing to stop him, laughing too at the disconcerted look in his eyes as she covered his small, purposeful hands with her own.
Taylor leaned back, and fanned himself. The chair back groaned under his weight. ‘Are you quite well, my dear Mrs Renard?’ he said. She saw the shine of acute distress in his eyes. ‘It is for your own sake; it is my duty to protect you.’
Pierre would have mocked his vulnerability, she thought. His kindness was like a break, a crack in his defences, where nameless anxieties had crawled in. She smiled gently, and tried to reassure him.
A man came the next day trailed by another with a pile of yellow London bricks. They mixed mortar, and gave Mary another wall, leaving lines of pale, muddy seams scattered in the passage like dead caterpillars. And she thought: who do you wish to protect me from, Doctor?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
18th June, 1792
A good evening with Taylor; we talked of my business, and how it thrives. Mary sewed in the corner. If only Taylor knew what it cost me to smile at her, and speak to her gently. When I speak of expanding the premises he must always mention how this and that will surely suit Mary. I maintain a sanguine appearance, but my heart rages against his consideration of her. I have cosseted her for too long. If it were not for her, what riches would I have in this world.
After she had gone to bed, we sank another bottle, and talked agreeable nonsense. He could not stop praising the silver kettle I supplied him with a month or two ago; but then I did not tell him I bought it in five years ago, and the man has little knowledge of taste.
The dust covers were coming off the furniture in the great rooms, by the master’s command. Harriet, mistress of the house, did not seem to care. ‘I would like to go to church today,’ she said to Joanna. ‘Alone.’
She asked to wear a piece of lace given to her by her mother. As Joanna unfolded it from its paper, bringing the perfume of lavender with it, she felt a spark of sensuality strike, a small joy in the sombre grey morning. She pinned the lace carefully over Harriet’s hair, leaving the golden curls unpowdered, for in her pregnancy the girl couldn’t stand the smell of half the cosmetics laid on her table in Renard’s silver boxes. Then she placed Harriet’s hat on her head, the mistress sitting with an air of patience and penitence, like a novice about to take her vows. As Joanna put the boxes back in their separate places on the dressing table, Harriet leaned forwards and kissed her hand. The unexpected tenderness of it made Joanna catch her breath.
‘Thank you,’ said Harriet. ‘You have been so good to me. Will you help me down the stairs?’
Joanna gave Harriet her arm. She walked her down the stairs and across the staircase hall, where Will and Oliver stood looking queasy in their livery after an evening drinking rhubarb wine. She watched as Harriet was handed into the carriage. As it moved off, Harriet raised her small gloved hand to Joanna, and waved. Joanna raised her hand in response, instinctively. But the carriage was already lurching away. She turned back into the hall to see Will the footman waving his hand mockingly.
‘Watch your
self,’ she said.
‘Listen to you,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m above you in this house and all other things,’ she said.
‘You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?’ he said.
‘There’s no thinking needed,’ she said, and bodily pushed past him, cannoning her elbow into his chest. Feeling her own strength gave her a flush of pleasure; for a moment she imagined leaping on him, bringing him down and beating him with her clenched fists until he was silent. But he was saved by one of the maids, who came tip-tapping down the stone staircase at great speed.
‘Master wants to see you, Miss Dunning,’ she said. ‘He’s in the Grand Salon. He told me to leave the sweeping for later.’
‘Master wants to see you!’ said Will in a mocking, whiny tone of voice. Joanna cast him a glare as she ascended the staircase.
She stopped at the threshold of the room. The double doors were open. Nicholas Chichester was standing at one of the sash windows.
She had only ever seen the room swathed in white dust covers. Uncovered, it was majestic. The walls were covered with emerald green damask, its colour bold even in the winter light. Details shone with the gold of ormolu and the glitter of glass. The emerald colour, with gold trimming, had been used to cover the chairs and settees. So vibrant was the room that Joanna felt it touched her senses, in the way music sometimes made her heartbeat fall, or scent recovered memories.
Mr Chichester glanced at her, and smiled at the expression of astonishment on her face. ‘Come in,’ he said.
She realized she was gaping, and closed her mouth. As she stepped on to the sprung floor, she wanted to walk on tiptoe, in reverence to the space. More than anything she wanted to touch the fabric of the walls and furnishings, but she knew any touch would sully it. Two enormous fire-places of Siena marble had recently been cleaned, each with a pair of caryatids bearing the mantel on their shoulders, watching her with glassy eyes from either end of the room. Above the mantels were large looking glasses, each reflective expanse bordered by a frame carved with fruit and ever-scrolling motifs she could not quite disentangle with her eyes, even if she squinted. Either side of each glass, there were silver-gilt sconces to reflect the candles that would be lit there.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 16