The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (21 page)

Mallory gave a sharp exhalation; the anger seemed to move through her posture, her breath. ‘That we were not his family,’ she said. ‘That he had suffered us long enough. That his home would not be a sanctuary for . . .’ She took a breath. ‘Idiot children.’ It was then that her hard expression crumbled, and she put her hands to her face. After a minute’s curiosity Digby realized that she was not weeping, but simply hiding herself for a moment so that she could regain her composure.

‘He was referring to my brother, Eli,’ she said, folding her hands in her lap again. ‘He was infirm, and Pierre had him sent away. What kind of man, I ask you, having done that, would say such a thing? Only a wretch, who has no knowledge of what love is. Renard could speak of kinship and affection but it was an aping of something he had learned; the sound of it, and nothing more. He took Mary from us, and drained the life from her as surely as if he had opened her veins. And yet he lived, and laughed, as though the harm he did to others was a tonic to him. That night, I gave him the reply I had always longed to give: I said that my only prayer was that Mary would forgive us for chaining her to him. That I would curse him every day of his life.’

‘How did he take that?’ said Digby.

‘I am sure it angered him. But he laughed, for he knew how to wound me, and like a malicious child he could not help but press on the point. He said that Eli should have been drowned at birth; that he would have done it, had he been there. That he would have,’ she paused, ‘managed things properly.’

She looked up at Digby, and the anger pouring from her eyes made him sit back a little. ‘I struck him,’ she said. ‘He lit such a fury in me. I could not help it; I did not think; I was half-blind with anger. I only struck out. But I did not harm him, I swear it. He cursed me, and raised his hand to me, but he did not hit me. He only set off wherever he was going, and at quite a pace. I’m glad I struck him, I tell you that. But I was not responsible for his death.’

Another small girl appeared in the doorway, her face framed by tangled pale curls, and Digby smiled at her wordless solemnity. ‘Go back to the kitchen,’ said Mallory ‘I’ll be there directly.’ She rose, and closed the door.

‘Thank you for speaking freely,’ said Digby. ‘I keep my word, I will not speak to anyone of what you said.’

‘I thank you for it,’ said Mallory, her face turned to the door. ‘I do not wish to hear that man’s name again, not if I live until I’m a hundred.’

‘I’ll wish you a good day, Mrs Dunning,’ said Digby.

As he turned out of Castle Street and set off for home, Digby no longer noticed the bright morning. He was deeply troubled. Maynard was bound to come after him soon, sniffing for more information, and he was damned if he knew what he was going to say. He had hoped for some titbits to feed the man, something to keep him satisfied. But he did not wish to drag Mallory and Mary into it all. He knew how precious the memory of love was; and if one of them had killed for it, his instinct was to protect them.

After the door had closed behind Digby, Mallory stood for a moment, leaning against the door in the suffocating darkness of the hallway. She did not know if she could move; if, suddenly, her legs might give way. I must keep on breathing, she thought, and tried to fix herself on the rhythm of it: in, out, in, out. If I keep on breathing, if I wait through the moments, things will become calm again. I can carry on with my life.

‘Mama?’

She moved her head slowly, glanced over her shoulder at her daughter, at the child’s eyes – her own – and her tangled curls.

‘Get your sister to brush your hair,’ she said, her voice catching on the first word. The girl looked at her with her mother’s sagacity, knowing that something was wrong.

It was not the first time Mallory had been spurred on by her children. She believed that she owed them nothing, not even if she thought about it with a quiet mind; but they were the reason she opened her eyes, some days. She pitched herself forwards. ‘Come on,’ she said, her fingers grazing the child’s hair. Reassured, the little girl followed her, down the hall and into the noisy kitchen.

‘Lis, brush your sister’s hair,’ said Mallory, and then she pushed through the smell of vegetables, the noise of her children’s voices, walking through the darkness until she was out in the open air, if you could call the small courtyard that. She looked up, at the fragment of blue sky that was visible, the clouds moving quickly, twining and untwining themselves, until everything seemed to be moving too fast.

Then she knelt, and vomited.

1st September, 1792

I have, this day, written a codicil to my will, honouring the connection I have with Sarah, through Benjamin. We must hold on to the blessed connections we have in life, even if they are over in the form we wished them to take.

Joanna had a half-day off. Always cherished, this week it was vital, for she felt the walls of the house closing in on her. She had written to the master, telling him what she knew of Harriet’s love for Renard, and the letter lay folded in her locking box, haunting her.

It was her custom always to dream some tale of what she would do: she would walk further than before and see places she had not imagined. Maybe she would even reach green fields, where the air was not grey with smoke and people did not walk too close to you. They were always too close. Once she and Stephen had dreamed of opening a tavern far from London, and sometimes she thought if she walked far enough she would find the life she had been supposed to live, a cheerful tavern and him with their daughter, waiting for her.

As she checked her appearance in the fragment of looking glass from her locking box, she thought: it is gone. That elusive quality that made men look at you as you passed them in the street. There is not even the suggestion of it left; it stole away in the night.

Once outside, she followed her usual path, her feet carrying her by habit. She went to St James’s Park, where the river was near freezing over. One or two people had lit fires on the banks, and she could smell chestnuts being roasted. She bought a handful, and ate them greedily, feeling the sweet, soft richness of each burst in her mouth. The young boy that had sold them to her watched her with impassive eyes. He is like me, she thought, always watching. ‘If the Thames freezes solid,’ she said to him, ‘there will be a Frost Fair. They will roast an ox on the ice, just as they did in seventy-six.’

‘I wasn’t born then, missus,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you were.’

She walked along beside the water, and watched a swan trapped by a thin tissue of encroaching ice. It swam forwards and nudged the edge with its body, as though it could swim a path through it. She stayed a moment to watch, and felt some of the tension in her muscles release.

In 1788 she had walked alone on the frozen Thames. Stephen was dead, but she had conjured him so strongly in her mind it was as if he was beside her. For that afternoon she had taken his name, and she still had the ticket, set in one of the presses that sold souvenirs: printed for Mrs Joanna Best on the ice, 1788. She had walked past the crowds and games, not wanting the day to end, the snow making the city beautiful, and before her, a river of light. Joanna had been unafraid of the light then, or of whether men looked at her as she passed. It had felt as though she and the spectral Stephen could walk along the ice forever, her hand encompassed by his. She would find a place along the river where the ice was broken, and slip into its blue darkness, and there would be no more pain.

But she had stopped. Something had beckoned her back from death in the freezing river, some niggling invitation within her to live.

Now, she shook off all thoughts of the past and retraced her steps. When she reached home the other servants were about to eat their dinner, but Joanna felt no need for food. Light-headed, she was filled with a humming excitement: she didn’t know if it was terror or delight, but it quenched everything else, leaving no room for thinking about normal concerns, and dissolving her customary hunger. The taste of the chestnuts was still in her mouth.

A small evening fire, thanks to Mr Chichester’s orders, was built in the grate in her room. She took out the letter she had written to the master from her locking box, tore it, and surrendered the fragments to the flames, watching until they had burnt into ashes before she went back downstairs.

The light was nearly gone, and the staircase hall was still and empty. In the cold air, and the half-light of sunset, Joanna felt the vibration of a kind of tension that was echoed in her own state. She suddenly felt very tired, the kind of deathly tiredness a street walker might feel at the end of a night that was dangerous to be surrendered to. She walked down the stairs. The space was hers alone: the black and white chequered tiles, the churchlike silence, the complex gilt ornament of the walls and ceiling which she did not understand. She wondered if it could be read, like some secret language.

She lay down on the floor. In the centre of the staircase hall, stretching out on the black and white tiled surface. The floor was cold and hard the length of her body, and her hair in its plain style pressed into the back of her head, barely cushioning her skull. She felt a lightening of her spirit; an unprecedented lack of fear. She didn’t care if she was found. She stared up at the coffered dome of the ceiling, so far away in the failing light, decorated with squares of gilded plasterwork. The thought of Mr Chichester was her talisman: for wasn’t she protected from on high by him, like one of the gods that flourished on the ceiling of the Salon? She had suffered much, and now she would be rewarded. Her uncertainty dissolved; she would survive, and her future would unfold in wonderful ways. Mr Chichester seemed like Jupiter himself: giver of favours and blessings, and she was bathed in his golden light.

She felt she could have lain there forever, until the dome crumbled and the house was open to the sky, and vines twined their way around the lyre-shaped ironwork on the balustrade, green around black, twines around twines. Green luscious fronds grew up before her eyes, until she could not be sure if she was dreaming or awake.

Then she heard voices coming from the depths of the house. She sat up, got to her feet, and brushed her skirt off. With irritation she realized she had been listening, with heightened senses, all the time.

Digby was rather enjoying his evening in a new tavern; its liveliness was easing his disquiet. The Running Footman was so full that he was forced to stand. When he was also asked to pay for his drink he felt aggrieved, but decided that nothing would put him off his intended purpose. The place was full of servants, all bright-eyed and vigorous, laughing and gossiping as though they’d never done a day’s work in their lives. Well, thought Digby, they are London servants. Everyone knew that London servants were sly and lazy and wanted to do less work for more money. And who could blame them. Still, their careless attitude to work and loyalty would be certain to help him.

Digby didn’t care when people stared at him. He’d had little sleep, and Watkin had told him he looked hollow-eyed. His cough didn’t seem so bad even though he had spent too long in the cold today, walking around the streets as though they offered the solution to his conundrum. The warmth of the tavern was welcome and long overdue.

He looked around hopefully, watchfully, standing tall, his hat off. He’d put the word out. He guessed it wouldn’t take long. He saw people glance in his direction, sometimes still talking, sometimes just looking. After a few minutes a man approached him. He was a tall young man with broad shoulders, a wide face and a too-wide smile. Digby instantly mistrusted him.

‘I hear you’ve been asking questions about Pierre Renard,’ the man said.

Digby smiled and signalled to the landlord for another drink.

5th September, 1792

Old man Maynard came to the shop today. He is all bustle and bluster. At the mention of the snuffbox, I put my hand in the air, to stop him from speaking, and turned my face away. It gave me great pleasure to tell him that, as his son has reneged on the terms of our other agreement, I am raising the percentage of interest to be charged. I thought he might be tipped into apoplexy, so purple he turned. It is a shame. For a long time, I hoped to cultivate him; a man does not do well to have too many enemies. But it soon became clear to me that he would never accept me, no matter my amiability or success in business. The man is old-fashioned; he cares only for the blood, and not for anyone who has risen, for he could never have done it himself. Anyhow, I told him of the new terms, gave him my word as a gentleman, and he said: ‘You, sir, are not a gentleman. You are as far from a gentleman as can be.’ There will be a day in the future when he will never dare to utter that. I can see it and feel it: one day, men will bow to me as their superior. I will have an estate in the country, as Thomas Havering has. And I will be the father of many children. My line will flourish.

As he regarded a pair of weighty silver bread baskets, it was with some surprise that Alban realized the smile that was flickering shyly across Grisa’s face was meant for him. He was unprepared for it; lost in his own thoughts, it seemed remarkable that Renard’s cynical manager was pleased to see him. Alban noticed that Grisa was less flamboyant than before; his French accent was even moderated a little, as though without Renard’s influence the man was gradually becoming Anglicized. Alban handed over two design sheets with commissions drawn on them.

‘More excellent work,’ said Grisa. ‘The mistress was most pleased with the last set of salts.’

Was she now, thought Alban. ‘As long as the customer was satisfied,’ he said. He had liked the designs, though it seemed strange to him that in the midst of lowness and lack of interest he could produce his best work, elegant wares with fine classical details, not overladen, but a perfect balance.

‘It feels as though things are going to the devil, some days,’ said Grisa, in a confiding tone. ‘I was checking the inventory and a pair of candlesticks is gone – gone!’ He gestured dramatically in the air. ‘They were old-fashioned things, the old French style, with shells and flowers, but heavy enough – they could have been melted down and made a dozen à la mode pieces, but can I find them? With the grief of monsieur’s death, I cannot even think when I last saw them.’

‘Perhaps they will turn up,’ said Alban.

He looked around the Renard showroom. The shop still had an air of elegance, though he thought the stock was a little more thinly displayed, and the frisson of hard efficiency which he assumed had been Renard’s had been eroded since his death. The place smelt of beeswax, and there was a faintly sulphurous odour emanating from the back room. ‘Are you boiling silver back there?’ said Alban.

Grisa nodded, and gave a little groan. ‘It was black,’ he said. ‘And I hardly trust the boy to do it well. My nerves. What with the news from France, I wonder why I carry on. What is it all for? There will be revolution here soon enough, and I’m sure the ruffians will find a way to steal our plate and jewels first.’ He shook his head, his eyes widening as they focused on something beyond the window.

Alban looked over his shoulder to see that a carriage had drawn up outside the shop. It was a fine equipage, painted a glossy brown, with a cypher on it in gold. As a man climbed down and approached the door Alban tried as best he could to be unobtrusive, stepping back against the wall. The door opened abruptly, the bell juddering as it was slammed shut.

The young man that entered was clearly a valued customer, though he was dressed in a greatcoat splashed with mud, and to Alban he looked little more than a child dressed in a man’s clothes. He had a relaxed demeanour, and as he entered the shop he looked around, his eyes shining, keen and sharp, as though he wished to create the impression of taking everything in. Grisa bowed so low Alban wondered whether his nose might touch his knee.

‘Mr Cheechester,’ he said, the French accent returning with a vengeance.

The young man smiled as though accepting his customary admiration. ‘Good day,’ he said. He leaned on the glazed counter, his eyes running over the jewels and trinkets there. It took him only a minute. ‘I would like that,’ he said, his finger resting above a necklace. ‘Will you wrap it? Add it to my bill.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Grisa, opening the counter with a flourish. ‘This is a new piece; would you care for a fitted box to be made?’

‘No, no,’ said Chichester. ‘It is merely a trifle. Wrap it in whatever you have, but do it neatly.’ Grisa scurried into the back room and returned in a moment with a piece of waxed paper. He laid the necklace down and began to wrap it gently.

‘These are very fine,’ said Mr Chichester, casually picking up one of the bread baskets that Alban had just delivered from the counter and feeling its weight. ‘Something like this would suit me very well. I have been thinking of a large commission for some time. Silver for the dining table.’

Alban saw disquiet cross Grisa’s face; he swallowed and stammered a little. ‘That has just been delivered for another gentleman,’ he said. ‘But the man that made it is here. May I present Mr Steele?’

‘Good day to you,’ said Chichester. He looked surprised to see another person there, though Alban warranted he must have noticed him before. As he looked at Alban a smile flitted over his frosty countenance. ‘The style of these seems perfect to me,’ he said. ‘Would you trouble yourself to call upon me in a day or so?’

‘Of course,’ said Grisa, before Alban could answer. ‘We would be delighted.’

‘Splendid,’ said Chichester, pocketing the wrapped necklace. ‘I am just returned to London from the country. I would be most pleased to see you on Tuesday, Mr Steele. This gentleman will direct you.’ With a flourish, he left the shop, his greatcoat swirling around him in such a flurry that Alban wondered whether it might get shut in the door. Grisa closed the door carefully behind him and watched him leap up into his carriage.

‘Why did you say that?’ said Alban, as Grisa hung his head exaggeratedly. ‘I am an outworker, that is all.’ His impulse was to shout at the man, for he had no patience these last few days, but he kept his tone controlled, bearing his cousins’ livelihood in mind.

‘You do not say
non
to a man such as him,’ said Grisa, in a wheedling tone. ‘Besides, he liked you, I could see it at once, and that is worth more in our trade than anything else. I managed it well enough in the past but since Mr Renard left us I have suffered a . . .
crise.
I expected madam to marry another silversmith quick enough, as any practical woman would, but she has not. There is too much work for me, and neither I nor,’ he lowered his voice, ‘that young fool monsieur left everything to has any real eye for design. I can recognize it though, Mr Steele, and you have it. I would ask for your assistance; it has been in my mind these past few days. The trustees will listen to me. You, and your cousin, will benefit from it.’

‘I must think on it,’ said Alban. He wasn’t entirely sure what Grisa was driving at; he only wanted to be out of the place. ‘In the meantime, I wish you good day.’ He left before Grisa could babble further, ignoring whatever the man was saying as he went out.

Grisa’s letter reached Foster Lane before Alban did. Alban wondered who Grisa had sent; some sprightly boy called up from the street and given a shining coin. It was lying on the table when he reached home; he broke the seal and frowned at the contents.

‘What is it?’ said Jesse, who was resting by the fire.

‘It’s that manager of Renard’s,’ said Alban. ‘He wishes me to assist him with the business until some other partner can be found. He promises us handsome compensation for it.’ He showed the letter to Jesse.

‘Holy Jesus,’ said Jesse, reading the amount. ‘I knew he liked you. A strange one, that Grisa. I’ve often wondered what lies beneath all of his posturing.’

‘He says he can authorize it with Taylor, though I think he should not be making offers without his knowledge. I do not wish to be dragged into whatever knot these people are tying themselves into,’ said Alban. They had heard gossip at the Assay Office: all was not well in the Renard establishment.

‘The widow?’ said Jesse, seemingly unwilling to speak Mary’s name. Alban shook his head impatiently, as though she meant nothing.

‘Then you should do it,’ said Jesse, sounding tired. ‘If not for yourself, then us. When you leave us it will give us something to live on.’

He didn’t mean it, Alban persuaded himself, but the words stuck in him: another small dagger. He would be glad to be away from it all, one day soon.

It was an excitable Grisa who arranged the meeting with Taylor. The doctor had taken to calling every day, he said. So it was that Alban found himself, looking at the shelves of stock in the Renard shop without enthusiasm, waiting for Taylor to call upon them. He was a patient man; but being at the beck and call of Dr Taylor disturbed him. Many things disturbed him about the situation.

‘Is your mistress here?’ he asked. He found it hard to concentrate with the knowledge that Mary was upstairs. It meant that every sound, every movement from above increased the tension in him.

‘
Non
,’ said Grisa. ‘Miss Avery has taken her out.’

The shop door opened, and Taylor came in, removing his hat as he did so. He was short of breath. He made a study of avoiding Alban’s direct gaze for a moment as Grisa babbled introductions, before bowing slightly. ‘Have you worked silver all your life, Mr Steele?’ he said, as he did so.

‘Near enough,’ said Alban, taken aback by the question. Grisa looked between the two of them, his face full of anxious confusion.

‘Well,’ said the doctor, as though ruminating on something. ‘Well.’

‘Dr Taylor, with respect,’ said Grisa. ‘We need Mr Steele here. He is a fine silversmith and a busy man.’

‘I am not questioning his ability as a silversmith – believe me, Mr Steele, I am not – but this is a question of extreme delicacy and this decision has been rushed upon me. The other trustees are all agreeable to the idea, but I am closer to it than they. I feel a great sense of responsibility; which is why I pause. Do not be offended by it, I beg you.’

‘I am not offended,’ said Alban. ‘But do you need me, or no?’

‘If Mr Grisa says so,’ said Taylor. ‘There must be someone here to help. And with the boy, Benjamin – he has been turned over to Mrs Renard for now. I had hoped to find someone – to resolve the situation.’

‘I am sure you will not need me for long,’ said Alban. ‘You may ask at Goldsmiths’ Hall for my character. Has anyone come forwards to suggest a partnership?’

‘Not at all,’ said Taylor. ‘Some damned fool has been putting word around that the place is cursed. Superstition: in this day and age. When people are rioting on the streets and the Tree of Liberty is erected on the green at Stockwell, you would think they have more real fears to think on.’

‘Surely it is then that they turn to the imaginary ones,’ said Alban.

‘You may be right,’ said Taylor. ‘I am glad for your help, Mr Steele.’ He still looked troubled, and cast a dark look at Grisa as he turned away. ‘God save the King.’ He cast the words behind him as he yanked open the door.

‘God save the King,’ said Alban.