The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (18 page)

19th June, 1792

To the Chichesters again, with more designs, adapted for the lady. I admit they are taking up much of my time for new customers. I know it will be a long time before I am paid for this service, but the wife is an enchanting creature. It does my heart good to see her. She has the bluest eyes I have ever seen, so bright and innocent; there is nothing haggard about her, she is unsullied, and seems to walk always in sunshine.

I cannot look at my wife without a pain in my guts, as though I have drunk bad wine; whereas Taylor remarks on her delicacy, her feeling, as though it is some admirable quality, I see only how her imagined cares (what cares does she have, when a woman is as lucky as she?) have left their mark on her face.

Daylight had long left the winter sky when Mary Renard’s household was woken by a small fist hammering on her front door. Mary was sitting in the chair by the fire’s embers. She heard Grisa open the front door, and begin a tirade of some sort. When she arrived at the top of the stairs she wondered whether she was dreaming, seeing Grisa remonstrating with a small figure, all the time wearing the most extraordinary red embroidered headgear.

‘What a fine nightcap you have, Mr Grisa,’ she said, as she came down the stairs, before she noticed that he was reprimanding her nephew, Matthew. Luckily, Matthew was his mother’s son, and did not heed Grisa’s annoyance, or look impressed by him. He only waited dispassionately for his aunt to descend the stairs. ‘You shoulda locked him in,’ he said when she reached him, nodding in the direction of Grisa.

‘What is it, my love?’ she said.

‘Ma’s going through her chests, throwing things out,’ he said. ‘She wanted you to have this. Said it was urgent. Says it will make you feel better, Aunt Mary.’ And he handed her a letter.

There was just enough light to see him run off along the pocked surface of the stone paving flags. A fine drizzle was falling and as she stood in the doorway Mary heard a watchman’s rattle sound in the distance.

‘Inside if you please, before we are all murdered in our beds,’ snapped Grisa. He pulled the door shut and heaved the bar up. A faint smell of smoked mackerel still hung in the air, a reminder of their dinner.

‘How like Mallory,’ said Avery from the top of the stairs. ‘Sending the poor child out at night. Could she not have waited until morning?’ She padded off to bed.

‘Poor child?’ said Grisa after her. ‘I pity any soul who gets in his way between here and Piccadilly.’

Mary went to her parlour, Grisa stamping up to his rooms and slamming the door hard. She sat on the edge of the chair, leaning close to the embers in the fireplace, the only source of light in the room.

She had seen at once that the address was written in the firm, elegant hand of her mother, the characters sloping forwards. The sight of the familiar, long-stilled hand gave her a jolt, reminding her of the letter burnt by Pierre so long ago. She unfolded the page and read it slowly. It was written after their mother had left London with Eli. It seemed so strange to see a new representation of her mother’s voice. She wrote of preserving vegetables, of a new maid her sister had engaged, and Eli. She smiled as she saw his name. Then, as she read on, her smile faded.

Beneath the last line was fresh ink; Mallory had underlined it. So you all knew, Mary thought, remembering their blank faces when she had wavered in her resolve to marry Pierre. How her parents and Mallory had looked at her: uncomprehending, puzzled, a wall of faces. Their lack of expression had silenced her, so there was only the noise of Eli playing in the background, and the clatter of the charwoman’s pail as he upturned it.

‘He will provide for you,’ said her father on the night before her wedding. ‘I am convinced of it, my dear.’ He had kissed her on the forehead, and turned to watch her as she began to climb the stairs by the light of one candle. ‘You said you liked him, when you met him that first time.’

She knew that Mallory had sent the letter to comfort her. But the image of Eli sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his blue eyes looking into the middle distance, hit her deeper than she could have anticipated. The letter was clasped tight in her hand now; carefully, she spread it out on her lap, and smoothed it. Then she pushed up the sleeve of her black bombazine dress. The bruises were fading; they were now pale yellow. She hardly knew why, but she could not bear for them to fade completely. She could only think, ‘not yet’, and press her index finger into each of the faint circles. She needed to keep Eli with her a little longer; to make his memory stronger in her mind than that of a destroyed letter, dissolving in flames. He was with her, watching the carriages and the people going up and down Bond Street; he was urging her to live.

Before he began his evening’s work, Digby went to Half Moon Street with the intention of speaking to Maynard. The man’s interest in Renard was vexing him, and he had resolved to know more. He was angry that he had allowed himself to be intimidated. He walked with a purposeful briskness, not wrapping himself against the damp evening air but keeping his head up and shoulders back, as though his proud gait would invest his old clothes with some kind of dignity. They were well enough, he supposed; he paid a woman in his lodgings to keep them well-mended, and was proud of his shirts. But they were not the kind of clothes he longed to wear; plain broadcloth, rather than the rich damasks, satins and figured velvets that gentlemen such as Maynard enjoyed, and the thought of meeting with his insistent patron made him feel even poorer.

As he neared Maynard’s house, his bravado began to drain away. He pulled his collar high so that his face was half-hidden. A couple of fine carriages passed him, and there were several sedan chairs carrying people to their clubs and to engagements. He passed one containing an old woman, her face white with powder and fur around her neck. She glanced at him with a mixture of disdain and fear, and he wondered whether she was anxious about the white pearls hanging from her elongated lobes. He almost fancied making a lunge towards her just to see her jump, but she might recognize him, and he had no wish to lose his place.

Maynard’s house was fine enough; a tall town house of London brick with an imposing door studded with iron. The torches were lit, and a carriage waited outside it, the horse twitching its tail this way and that. Digby bit his lip and surrendered, turning away. He was unable to imagine himself mounting the steps and knocking on the door, but he had no wish to go around to the back of the house, and face the curious stares of the servants, for he was a free man, he thought, not a servant. He began to cough, and as he fought it, trying to catch his breath, the front door opened, and Maynard came out.

Digby took a step back, not wanting to be seen. Maynard was dressed for dining out; Digby saw a flash of white and black beneath his greatcoat. The woman that walked beside him Digby took to be Mrs Maynard. Her hair was piled ridiculously high and covered with an enormous confection composed mainly of feathers. But through her grand appearance Digby noticed her eyes: a piercing blue, full of sadness, her fine skin lined, so that she looked older than her husband. She smiled at Maynard as he handed her into the carriage, a smile that spoke of trust and perfect confidence, and it stuck in Digby’s heart.

Before the carriage even rolled off, Digby walked on, passing through the scent of roses that the woman had left to linger in her wake. He was glad they had not seen him; his heart was beating hard with agitation, and he wanted always to be calm when dealing with Maynard. It was drizzling, and the dampness soaked into his clothes, so that before long his agitation calmed to dull misery.

When he reached the watch house he found his partner in a rebellious mood. I’m sick of covering for you,’ said Watkin.

Digby had heard it all before. ‘Quit all your mouthing,’ he said. ‘We can go out now; it’s barely chimed the quarter hour.’

‘Not so quick,’ said the beadle, shifting his clay pipe in his capacious mouth. ‘I’ve already got two lots of you patrolling the square. I’m sending you round to Castle Street; there were housebreakers at number twelve on the square last night, and the maid says she saw a silver coffee pot like the one that got taken in the pawnbroker’s window. Go and visit the woman who owns it.’

‘Where’s the constable, then?’ said Digby ‘We should be led by him, and we’ve no warrant. Besides, it’s off our patch.’

‘I decide that, Digby,’ said the man with a tone of self-importance. ‘The constable has other things to attend to, and if it pertains to the square, it’s our business. It’s owned by a widow Dunning. Go round and see if you can get anything out ofher.’

Digby blocked out Watkin’s moaning as they trudged around to Castle Street. It had taken a moment before he had realized that they were heading to Mallory Dunning’s house, but now he had, the tension crackled through him. While Watkin squared his shoulders, Digby shoved him out of the way and knocked on the door.

It was opened just a crack, and Digby raised his lantern to make out the woman’s face as he said his name and business. She opened the door without a word.

‘Make sure you scrape your boots well,’ said Digby to Watkin. ‘We don’t want to be dragging dirt through Mrs Dunning’s house.’ He received a nod and a flash of approbation from her fine dark eyes, and she led them into the kitchen, shading the candle flame with her hands. It was a dark room, with bare floorboards, and a young girl was rolling pastry at the table, watched by a smaller girl.

‘You’re too early,’ said Mallory, following Digby’s gaze. ‘Apple tart, but not ready yet. Matthew,’ she addressed a young, stocky boy, who was watching the men with his mother’s eyes. ‘Go and fetch a pot of beer for Mr Digby and . . . ?’ She let her eyes rest on Watkin’s face.

‘W-Watkin,’ Watkin stammered, and Digby longed to give him another shove, for it was evident that his partner wasn’t used to dealing with the fairer sex.

‘What’s your business with me, gentlemen?’ said Mallory. ‘But where are my manners? You should sit down in the parlour. There’s no fire there, though.’

‘That is well,’ said Digby. ‘We are hardy. We’ll leave your girls to do their cooking.’

The parlour was a small room, and there were signs that it had once been neat enough. But with a stranger’s eye Digby noticed how sparsely furnished it was, and though it was clean, any elegance had long since ebbed away. The paper, once à la mode, had greyed with the London smoke, and was peeling from the wall. There were a few ornaments here and there, and a rug on the floor, run to threads from the children’s shoes. When Watkin sat down, the spindly chair he had chosen creaked under his weight.

‘How can I help you?’ said Mallory.

‘We’re calling about your business, Mrs Dunning,’ said Watkin.

Digby sat back in his chair. If anyone was going to be the bearer of bad tidings, he was happy for it to be Watkin.

‘The fact is, housebreakers visited Berkeley Square last night,’ said Watkin. ‘And we’ve been told a silver coffee pot from the robbery ended up in your shop. I think you know how grave it would be, if that were the case.’

Mallory took a breath. Digby didn’t know if it was just his imagination, but she seemed slightly paler; though in the low light, he could not be sure.

‘I doubt it, Mr Watkin,’ she said, without a tremor in her strong alto voice. ‘My shop is run by a manager, and it has done me more harm than good, I’ll grant you. But I keep a tight rein on it, sir, and I can tell you that no new stock has been brought today. I send my boy there to check every day, and Mr Ibbotson, the manager, must always report to me if he has bought anything; and I have no such report. You are free, good sirs, to go to the shop, and search there, in the morning. He is there at eight every day.’

The parlour door opened, and Matthew entered with two pint pots.

‘Thank you, young man,’ said Digby, as he took his. ‘You’re old enough to be a ’prentice, now, aren’t you?’ The boy nodded, the dimples beginning in his cheeks. ‘What do you want to be?’ said Digby.

‘A silversmith like grandpapa,’ said Matthew, without hesitation, and Digby frowned.

‘My father was a silver box-maker,’ said Mallory. ‘And his father before him. Though no one remembers that now; my good brother-in-law eclipsed him, with his fancy Bond Street shop.’

‘Mr Renard?’ said Digby. ‘Get on with him, did you?’

‘Mattie, go into the kitchen now,’ said Mallory. After the door closed behind him, she turned back to the watchmen. ‘I didn’t think well of him,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind telling you. He made my sister’s life a misery. And, at the last, he brought a stranger into his house, and now he has left him everything.’

She was an astonishing woman, thought Digby, as he stared into her eyes. Animated, as she was now, she seemed lit up from within.

‘Your husband, Mrs Dunning,’ said Watkin, showing signs that his memory was groaning into life, like a slow-moving automaton. ‘Was he not had up for receiving? Taking in melted-down silver plate in ingots?’

‘He was acquitted,’ said Mallory sharply. ‘My late husband was a good man, and too trusting of others. He never did a dishonest thing in his life, and the same goes for me.’

‘We believe you, ma’am,’ said Digby, downing his pint. ‘Come on, Watkin. We have troubled this good lady long enough.’

As he bundled Watkin down the hall towards the door, Digby turned back to Mallory. ‘Who do you think killed your brother-in-law, Mrs Dunning?’ he said.

Mallory did not seem moved by his words. She stood as though considering the question, a long tear of tallow running down the candle, the glitter of the flame in her black eyes. ‘Someone who hated him,’ she said. ‘But God knows, there were enough of them.’