The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (17 page)

‘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?

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 yourself,’ 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.

She looked up at the ceiling, and took a breath. Above her was a painting of a classical scene, in a frame of carved plaster, of such richness and complexity that she could not take it all in. ‘Jupiter,’ said Mr Chichester. Beneath the god’s feet was a golden sunburst, from which hung a rain of crystal drops: an enormous chandelier, its diamond-cut drops ready to reflect the light of a hundred candles.

‘You will see it lit,’ he said. He stopped half a yard from her, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it? Not quite Devonshire House or Lansdowne House, but still a miniature work of art. All my aunt’s work. She lived here alone, you know, for many years after her husband died.’

And she was a miser in the servants’ bedrooms, thought Joanna, who had fought to have even a small table in her room. One woman: all these candles, all this damask, all this gold and glass. One woman to breathe this air. The pleasure she had taken in the room curdled. ‘How is your aunt, sir?’ she said.

‘Tolerably well, but not well enough to return to London,’ he said. ‘She dictated a letter commanding me to open up the grand rooms and use them. She says she has seen nothing of me in the London papers, and is disappointed. As her favourite nephew, I must obey her commandments. A small gathering and a long letter would satisfy her. I only just ordered for the dust covers to be taken off the furniture.’ He put his hand on the gilt carved arm of one of the chairs. ‘Extraordinary.’ His head bowed, he looked up at Joanna. ‘I see you appreciate beauty,’ he said. ‘I admit I am rather fearful of ladies and their teacups around these silks.’

‘What kind of gathering, sir?’ said Joanna, mentally running through Harriet’s gowns and their suitability for such an occasion.

‘I think a hundred for tea and bread and butter one evening won’t do any harm,’ he said. ‘Will my wife manage that, do you think? Are two hours of pleasantries within her power?’

Joanna curtseyed.

‘I did not mean to burden you, the other evening,’ he said.

‘Please, sir, do not think of it,’ she said.

‘I have confidence in you, that is all,’ he said. He smiled, and his face looked boyish, despite the formality of his fine clothes. ‘I would like to think of us as allies. I will be away for a few days. Some urgent business. Mrs Holland tells me my wife has been eating oysters by the barrel, and I can only surmise that she is perhaps not looking after herself and the baby as she should.’

Nasty old bitch, that Holland, thought Joanna. She said nothing.

‘While I am away, watch my wife,’ he said. ‘Perhaps make a note of what she eats, and what she asks for; her general health. Please see that she eats nourishing food, suitable for her condition. It would do me good to know there is someone caring for her in that way.’ He put his hand on hers briefly; the heat of his touch warmed her cold skin. ‘I trust you, Joanna,’ he said. ‘You will have whatever you wish for: extra fires, ink, paper, more candles. Things that befit your status in this house.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Joanna.

When Harriet returned, she was in a sulk. ‘I saw Miss Williams at church,’ she said as she walked past Joanna, who followed her up the stairs. ‘I had thought I would be alone, at that time of day. That I might confess,’ she stopped, smiled, and leaned into Joanna’s ear, ‘like a Papist.’

Joanna smiled, and immediately felt the expression did not suit her; it was an indication of guilt. ‘How was she?’ she said, tempering it.

‘She looked very fine,’ said Harriet. ‘She wore a green silk gown with silver lace, and a green ribbon a mile long threaded through her hair beneath an enormous hat. Her curls were tumbling everywhere. She put me quite in the shade.’

‘But, madam, you always look so beautiful,’ said Joanna, mechanically. The familiarity of it soothed her. Flattery had been one of her first lessons, learned when she was still sewing ribbons on to bonnets in a milliner’s shop. Now she flattered like an automaton, and so convincingly that even she didn’t consider herself a liar. It was a duty she had to perform well, that was all. ‘If you wish, we can experiment with the curls, but I think the more structured look you have now suits you very prettily indeed.’

Harriet had picked up a letter that had been placed on her table. She took her gloves off and threw them on the bed, then broke it open and began to read. She put a hand to her mouth.

‘My own mother,’ she said, looking up. Her voice vibrated, but no tears came. ‘She writes to me as though I am a stranger; and she knows I live through my letters.’

Joanna remembered Harriet, hunched over her secretaire, writing laboriously: words, and more words, her lips moving.

‘A few lines on duty, and that is all she has to say to me,’ she said. ‘And the letter is closed by my father, on money matters. At least my husband will be pleased.’

She got up and walked backwards and forwards by the bed, then threw herself down in the chair. Joanna went to her, took off her hat, and unpinned the lace. She made her hands gentle, knowing how to soothe without words. Harriet’s voice had stopped on a little break, but no, she would not cry: it was simply her voice, so overly expressive, as though she had a perpetual sore throat. ‘She sees me as a family portrait now,’ she said. ‘That is all. What comes after I have done my duty? Nothing, it seems.’

‘Your mother will write again soon,’ Joanna said, softness and briskness mixed together to make her sound definite. ‘I hope, in the interim, to be of some comfort to you, though I am but a poor substitute.’ You are a wifely scion now, she thought. I have waited a long time for you to turn from child to adult, and now you have realized the truth in mere moments. She wondered what exactly Harriet had written to her mother; she was sure it had not been too much, for Harriet was in awe of the woman. She certainly would not have breathed even a hint of her connection with Monsieur Renard.

Harriet went to her dressing table and laid her hand on one of the silver boxes. ‘I have done what they asked of me,’ she said. ‘I wear the diamonds my father bought from some poor purse-empty family. He thinks to make us an old family, but you cannot do that so quickly, can you? My father’s house in Northumberland covers acres, but not the house my mother was raised in. My grandmother was a fearsome woman, but practical, with forty keys swinging from her chatelaine. Counting the provisions, counting and mending the linens, supervising the cooking. Even her recipes were kept under lock and key. She ran the house in every sense; she was of use.’ She stopped. ‘What did your mother do?’

‘She was my mother,’ said Joanna. ‘I don’t remember.’ She didn’t dare to utter the truth: father a bookbinder, mother a drudge, apprenticed to a milliner at fourteen. One never knew when some stray remark would be taken up against you, especially when you had submitted a false character. Joanna had scrubbed enough floors to last a lifetime; she was determined to keep this place.

Harriet looked at her for a long time. ‘I knew, Joanna, the moment I saw you, and Mama knew too. There was a goodness about you, a steadiness. She left you here for my comfort.’

Joanna said nothing. She folded the lace into its paper.

‘That woman, Mama said, will guide you, will keep you as you need to be for Mr Chichester. I never told you that till now because it made me sad to think I should need chaperoning. I was a little afraid of you when you arrived.’

Something like dread turned in Joanna.

‘But then, how could Mama be expected to stay near me?’ said Harriet. ‘It would be impossible. I am the first of her children to go out into the world, I must lead the others by showing an example of perfection. There are eight of us, you know.’ She paused. ‘Eight living, that is.’

Joanna felt the knowledge break over her that while she congratulated herself on being the perfect servant, she had failed in something. She had been entrusted with something and she had not realized it. She had been given a child in Harriet, a child that would have to be a lady, handed over by her tired mother.

‘What must it have been like to live my grandmother’s life?’ said Harriet again. There was no sharpness in her tone, only insistence.

‘I would not know,’ said Joanna.

‘I wish I did. I thought myself sensible until I came to London,’ said Harriet. ‘But my head was so easily turned. The clothes, the entertainments. So many whispers, so much gossip. And then, him.’ She looked at her hands. ‘I did not see the man. Only the name, only what a prize he would be, and for my family too. I was pointed at him; I looked at no other. We were engaged within a few days. I made it so easy for him. I try to remember if he ever smiled at me – I think he must have done, once. He must have done, surely? But if he did, I cannot remember it. One brief season of merriment. And now, my world is this house. A prison of the most exquisite kind.’

‘Have you been reading those novels again?’ said Joanna, wondering which of the servants she had sent to get books.

‘I see it all,’ said Harriet. ‘I know it is beautiful. My mother gasped when she first saw it, and I did too. I thought it would make me the wife my husband wishes me to be. That it would flow through me, make me of itself, in the way that other things do. But it does not touch me: I rebound off it; I am temporary.’

‘I will fetch you a drink,’ said Joanna. ‘Sit here, be quiet.’

Do not fight life and the path it takes you, she thought. Do not waste your energy, beating against the beautiful enclosure of your jewelled box; and she felt something like pity stir in her heart.