The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin

by Tobin, Sophia

But on this day, she would admit to only joy.

  She smiled brightly at him. ‘Do you have any family you wish to inform, or wish me to meet?’

  He shook his head. ‘My parents are both dead,’ he said. ‘You have met Jesse and Agnes; I have some other cousins you may meet but they are rooted in Chester, so a journey will be necessary.’

  She watched him. ‘Were you ever married before?’ she said. ‘Forgive me if the question seems indelicate. You do not offer information about yourself, and there are some things that I need to know.’

  ‘I should have been more forthcoming, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But it does not come easily to me. I have nothing I do not wish you to know, and nothing to tell.’ He took her gently by the shoulders. In the light he saw the many colours in her eyes, colours that all seemed to mingle to make that piercing stare. ‘There are no other wives, no other children,’ he said. ‘No ghosts.’

  ‘All the ghosts are here, then,’ she said, and flushed, for she could see from the look in his eyes that she had wounded him. Just as quickly the hurt melted away, and he smiled at her; no, she thought, you are not Pierre.

  ‘We will be gone from here soon,’ he said. ‘And you are showing. You will be a subject of gossip, Mrs Steele.’

  She smiled, plaiting her hair slowly. ‘I thought,’ she said, ‘that it might not be true. I was growing thinner by the day, before.’ She stroked her stomach.

  ‘Well, I will see you eat well,’ said Alban. ‘And I have strict orders from Avery. If I do not make you grow until you are large and hearty, she will return, and make you eat every hour that you are in her company.’

  ‘I saw Eli,’ she said. She hardly knew what impulse prompted her to say it.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘In the church. I glanced behind, and he was there, with my parents. They wanted me to know that they bless us.’

  ‘My love,’ he said, and she could see the disquiet in his eyes. ‘You must rest. Get into bed, or you will be cold.’ He came forwards and pulled up the covers. Before he covered her over he allowed his hand to rest on her stomach. He could not help it; he had to bless his unborn child with tenderness every time he came near her.

  As she lay down, his fingers traced a pattern that she had sewed into her nightgown: a delicate web of red thread on the cream. ‘It has its own kind of beauty,’ he said. ‘Like the small things we work into silver. It shows me you and I are matched, Mary.’ He looked at her. ‘I will protect you. I will do whatever I have to do, to protect you.’

  Mary slid down under the covers and let him tuck her in. He kissed her lips gently. ‘You must rest,’ he said, standing up, and stretching, as though he was preparing for work.

  ‘Are you leaving me?’ she asked.

  ‘There is work to be done, and we must keep things as normal as possible,’ he said. ‘Grisa tells me a man called Mr Maynard called. He says that he has only just recalled that he left a snuffbox here, some months ago. Grisa has not seen it, and I must search the place top and bottom, for he is most insistent. Will you give me the keys to the chests?’ He held his hand out.

  She hesitated. Apart from the two occasions with Benjamin and Mallory, she had not surrendered the keys to anyone since Pierre’s death. She had begun to think of them as her own. They lay beside the bed, and she looked at them for a long moment. Then she saw the impatience in his eyes, and she remembered how shyly they had spoken their vows to each other, as though they were strangers.

  ‘We will be happy, won’t we?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Mary?’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘Give me the keys.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  1st November, 1792

  I happened to walk by Berkeley Square today. I saw Chichester pass, carried in a sedan. He looked thin, as weak as water. He seems to fade day by day. My apprentice, malnourished as he is, could beat him in the ring. And his wife is such a woman: my dearest girl.

  At our meeting in the park I happened to mention to her of a legal separation I had heard of. I must have been mad to say it, but when her skin is beneath my fingertips, the thoughts flow from my lips. She is so beautiful, dressed in the most delicate silks and satins, her white neck warmed by sable. It is like that day I first entered a jeweller’s shop: her eyes are the sapphires, her skin the silver. I am racked by the need to have her, not just to possess her bodily, but to make the jewel entirely my own, and keep it in a case of my own devising.

  Of course it is madness to talk of a separation; it would never be possible and it is fantastical to think of it. But God has given me the vision of what could be: the boy will die, and if my wife is not there . . . God knows I have wished her gone long enough. Yes, I will write it: I see a day when Harriet could be my wife. To write it brings tears to my eyes, tears of gladness and longing. They blur my sight and fall on to this page.

  The next day dawned bright. When Mary came out of the shop on to Bond Street, she felt that the world had been transformed, and all her fears from the night before, dissolved. It was as though her senses had been sharpened, and she saw everything anew. Her sight was clearer, and she noticed details everywhere. A weed in the guttering, a crack in a brick, the specks of dirt in a pail of milk as it was carried past her, the milkmaid mewing her wares.

  It was like that first morning after she had taken Alban into her bed. The sense of life had surged in her. Strange as it was, she felt sure it was not mainly from the physical act. She had felt connected to the world again. She was free to feel sympathy for others again, and free to see beauty where it lay.

  She smiled to think that her husband had learned about women the way he had learned to draw designs and work silver: carefully, slowly, persistently. This morning, he had left her silver wedding cup on the table, so that she found it when she came in to breakfast. Its surfaces pure and sheer, he had rubbed every fingerprint away. It shone, drawing light into itself, and casting light out. It seemed to say to her: have patience, and you will have everything. ‘You and I are so different,’ he had said to her, when she had run to him and kissed him for it. And she didn’t know if she saw pleasure or misgiving in his eyes.

  ‘Madam?’

  The woman’s voice made her turn in the street, and her gaze met with a pair of blue eyes. The lady that had spoken to her had one hand placed on the wall of the shop, as though it was taking her weight. She was dressed finely, her hat trimmed with feathers that bobbed and spun in the breeze. She wore gloves, and was well wrapped against the cold, but Mary could see she was heavily pregnant. She recognized her from somewhere, and as she moved towards her she mentally began flicking through the lists of names she had consulted in the ledger, hoping that an identity would emerge. There was such a stricken look on the woman’s face that Mary’s first instinct was to offer her comfort.

  ‘Are you well?’ said Mary. ‘Can I help you?’

  The woman shook her head, and looked at the ground. When she spoke, her voice was soft, without any harshness. ‘I may be in error,’ she said, and again turned her eyes to Mary’s face, as though searching for something there. ‘Yet I had to come here, and speak to you. I hope you will understand.’

  ‘Please, do speak,’ said Mary.

  ‘Oh,’ said the woman. ‘This is much harder than I thought. I have imagined this moment many times, yet now, all of the things I have to say to you have dissolved, like smoke.’ She gave a small, girlish laugh, but Mary noticed that her eyes remained steady. ‘I suppose there is only one important thing I must say,’ said the lady. She took a deep breath, then drew herself up, as though bracing herself. ‘I loved your husband once,’ she said.

  Mary said nothing. Her first thought was: Alban. But before she could formulate any question, the woman had pitched herself forwards, and began to walk down the street, quickly. She did not look back, and moved surprisingly fast. Mary watched her bobbing head until it disappeared from view.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there. A customer
went into the shop, glancing at her strangely as he passed. She turned a little, and saw Alban and Grisa dancing in attendance through the glass. Her husband smiled as he spoke to the customer, but his eyes were sad.

  Then the bell went again, the customer passed by, and Alban was beside her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Grisa noticed your dress fluttering in the wind. And here you are, stock-still as though in a trance. Don’t the neighbours think you strange enough?’

  He meant it as a joke, she knew. But she turned away from him, unable to look at him. ‘What is it?’ he said. She shook her head, silently, and pushed past him to go into the shop and up the stairs. As she did it, she could tell he was maddened by her silence, and it grieved her, yet she could not speak.

  Two hours had passed and Alban came to their chamber door, knocking and knocking until she opened it.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘I have a headache,’ she said. ‘Go back to your bench.’ He was dressed in his work clothes: the pale brown shirt and breeches, the leather apron still tied around his waist. His hands were stained grey with toil. ‘Did you not even wash before you came up here?’ she said. Her voice sounded disdainful, even to herself.

  ‘Not until you tell me what happened,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ she said. His right thumbnail was black; she caught sight of it as his hands twitched slightly in the anxiety of the moment. ‘I misstruck,’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me?’

  She stared at his hand, reached out to touch it. He put his hands on her waist, and pulled her to him. ‘Tell me,’ he said. His left hand brushed her face, then slid down gently to the back of her neck, and rested there. Mary found she couldn’t look up at him.

  ‘A woman on the street,’ she said. ‘Came up to me and said, “I loved your husband once”.’

  Alban let her go. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Did you recognize her?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know who she was. For a moment, I thought she meant you. And the sadness came upon me – and I thought – what hope is there? After everything that has happened? How can we be free of it all?’

  He shook his head. ‘We can be free if you will only let him go. You think I am like him, don’t you? Do you know me?’

  She sagged forwards at the disbelief on his face. She clung to him, and kissed him, until he answered her kisses with his own, turning the key in the lock. Afterwards she was too sensitive to be touched, and twisted on the bed, not knowing how to be soothed. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Will you never have faith in me?’ he said, and his voice was sad.

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t.’

  A door slammed in the depths of the house and Joanna woke suddenly.

  As she rubbed her eyes the details of her dream stayed vivid in her mind. She’d come across the master with one of the boys he had picked off the street. She had been walking along, her heart full of cheer having just left Digby; she had seen someone struggling with a young boy, had paused, her hand clenched around a knife, yet not wanting to use it. And out of the darkness, her master’s face, then a cry of fear.

  Unnerved, Joanna got up and left her room, locking the door behind her. She went down through the back stairs.

  Harriet’s room was empty. A window had been left open, the air blowing through. Joanna hurried to it and shut it, with a crash. I put too much force into things, she thought, I must still myself, I cannot be angry with the world forever.

  Down in the hall no one had seen Harriet. Alarm began to unfurl itself in Joanna’s chest. She spoke sharply to the footmen, and they looked at each other. She had an image in her mind of Harriet, hopeless dramatic Harriet, doing some injury to herself. She picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs.

  As she did, the front door opened and Harriet walked in. She looked well. Joanna wondered how she had even managed to dress herself properly; to bind her hat to her head. Joanna ran to her, fussed over her, and called for them to mix the mistress a hot sillabub. Then she folded Harriet’s hand over her arm and led her upstairs.

  ‘I am well,’ said Harriet, settling down on a chair. ‘Dearest Joanna, you must not worry.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ said Joanna, fussing around her.

  ‘I went to see Mr Renard’s shop,’ said Harriet. ‘I never went there, while he lived. He always came here. One only had to write a note, and he would come running.’

  ‘You should not have gone out,’ said Joanna. ‘You should not distress yourself.’

  ‘I am not distressed,’ said Harriet. ‘I wished to go to his shop.’ Her voice was soft. ‘I owed him that.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Joanna. ‘You have no obligation to him.’

  ‘He deserved an honest answer,’ said Harriet. ‘I should not have left him to wait outside for me on a cold November night, at the mercy of whoever should pass. I knew my answer before that night. I could have written to him, made him understand without bringing him to stand outside this house. You see, Joanna, he thought he could persuade me, still. The day before that terrible night, he had sent me money. I still have it. It is in my secretaire. Proof of his circumstances, he said. Insurance, security, I did not know what he meant.’

  ‘A man such as him should not have been discussing money with you,’ said Joanna.

  Harriet looked away in irritation. ‘He was not thinking rightly. He said he was wildly in love with me. I thought it was a game. I had not been flattered so. But then, he tried to speak to me, in such serious terms. I laughed it off.’

  ‘Serious terms?’ said Joanna.

  Harriet looked up. Even now there was something of the coquette about her gaze. ‘He told me I could separate from my husband.’

  Joanna tried to swallow back her amazement. She fixed her gaze on Harriet. No, she thought, no. Pierre Renard was not that kind of man.

  ‘He even spoke of us marrying,’ said Harriet. ‘And when I laughed, he told me not to, for it killed him.’

  ‘And what of his wife?’ said Joanna.

  ‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘He promised me all would be well, that he would “deal properly with the situation”. He said I should wait and see, and that he would prove it to me. That he would do everything to make me contented, if only I would promise to be his.’

  ‘What did you say?’ said Joanna.

  ‘What could I say? I was all astonishment. I told him to come back that evening, that I would get some message to him. But I knew, already. I could not look him in the eyes and say it. He gave me full proof of his affection.’ Her eyes flickered. ‘But I, the silversmith’s wife?’ She paused, as though she expected Joanna to say something. ‘The shame would have killed my father. To leave this, for a tradesman? I may as well have been the grocer’s wife or the chandler’s wife.’

  Joanna said nothing. It was amazing, she thought, that the Harriet who wept over the stirrings of her baby would give this same cool, pragmatic stare. She wondered whether the emotion there was all play-acting, if it rippled any further than the surface of those blue eyes. And she felt dread twist its way around her heart.

  ‘That night,’ said Harriet, ‘I knew he would be there. He had begged me to reconsider, to let him know my thoughts and feelings on the matter. I should have sent out to him, some message. It was a cold night. But my husband had someone in the house. I was jealous and afraid. And I knew Pierre would return. Though,’ she paused, ‘he too had frightened me, a little. Shown me his temper. He said he would chalk,’ she paused again, ‘a word, on our door. When I think of it now, I cannot bear it. I was so distraught, I told it all to my coachman. Such a loyal servant. Poor Pierre.’

  She hid her face with her hands. Automatically, Joanna reached out to her, and gently touched her arm. But you were there, she thought. You told me you went out, fearlessly, into the night; you told me you stood on the step. Terrified, she did not speak. When Harriet lowered her hands her
eyes were dry.

  ‘I went to see Mrs Renard today,’ she said. ‘I wanted to tell her not to mourn, for she meant nothing to him. But when I got there, I did not know what to say. He hated her, you see, and how could that be a comfort?’

  ‘How was she?’ said Joanna.

  ‘She is striking enough, I suppose,’ said Harriet. ‘But not pretty like me.’

  Joanna could say nothing.

  ‘She looked happy,’ said Harriet. ‘So there was no reason to tell her. She is happy.’

  Joanna shook her head, and felt Harriet’s hand rest on hers, then tighten. I will say nothing, she thought: it is not my place, I am a good servant. And when she raised her eyes to Harriet’s, Harriet smiled.

  ‘We all receive what we deserve in the end,’ said Harriet. ‘Do you not think so?’

  But Joanna could not speak, recognizing for the first time a nature as twisted as her own.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  17th November, 1792

  Taylor came this evening, and without invitation. He was not his usual cheerful self, and though I called for wine, and was all fit to welcome him – despite the fact that I had not invited him – he did not respond to my jollity. I noticed that he kept looking about, in a distracted way, and before long he asked where Mary was. I said that she was above, for she had a headache, and this seemed to disturb him even more, so that for a moment I thought he might ask to see her.

  I admit this did vex me, and so I made a few barbed comments, and I was a little forced in my humour. I made a jape about her sickliness, which he reprimanded me on; and later when I joked about a gentlemen I had read of in the newspaper who had left a large fortune, and said that it was strange that rich husbands did not live long, he interjected forcefully. He brought up some strange thing of the past – a person who was an apprentice of mine, who had a weak character – and accused me of hounding him. He told me he had often excused me of things in the past, and let my words go when he should have spoken up. I have seen that look on your face before, Pierre, he said – you know I love you as I would a brother or a son, but I do not like what I see in your eyes. I am pleased to say that I did not respond with wrath; I was silent, and cold, and eventually he begged my pardon, as I knew he would, and left.