The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (23 page)

11th September, 1792

I visited the Chichesters today, on the excuse of delivering more patterns, and was ushered into Mrs Chichester’s chamber. When I handed the papers to her, I touched her hand. An incidental touch, but I still feel it, for it woke my heart in my breast. Not all things result from reason.

Joanna had not slept. In the fragment of looking glass her eyes were puffy, with purplish hollows beneath them. She had tried to dress neatly, as usual, but there was something dishevelled about her appearance that she could not tame, and no matter how hard she tried she could not create the impression of neatness and harmony.

The day after her encounter with Mr Chichester, she had gone to Pierre Renard’s shop, and it had been revealed to her that the pendant was lost, and with it, the large lock of Stephen’s hair. That night she had been unable to rest, had alternately argued with people not there, and wept, before finally falling into a fitful doze just before dawn. On waking her arm was curled against her chest. She was holding her child to her; there was a metallic taste in her mouth, and she knew within moments that unconsciousness had not brought her peace.

‘Are you quite well?’ said Harriet, as Joanna put one of the toilet service boxes down haphazardly and it collided with another. Joanna turned towards her mistress, and it occurred to her that she had not really looked Harriet in the eye, or observed her properly, for a long time. What she saw surprised her. Harriet’s golden curls were pushed back from her forehead, and her skin, though fine, had lost its pinkish tinge of health. She looked rather fragile, and there was a certain nerve-ridden rawness about her gaze that made her look older.

Joanna shook her head. ‘There is something I must tell you, madam,’ she said. Harriet gestured to a chair.

Joanna sat down. She normally held herself straight, but some instinct made her curl forwards, examining her hands as she rubbed them together. ‘You may hear of this soon enough from Mr Chichester,’ she said. ‘Though he may not couch it as directly as I do now, but only tell you that I have secrets, and that I am not a virtuous woman.’ She continued without pausing, still staring at her hands, knowing that if she did not stop she could keep enough momentum to get her story out. ‘Years ago, I fell in love. The man I loved is now dead – my husband.’ She added the lie to protect her pride a little; she needed to paint a little respectability over it all. ‘He died before I had our daughter. Our baby. I had to give the baby up.’

She did not cry. It astonished her. She had got the words out. When she looked up at Harriet, her mistress’s eyes glistened with sorrow. But more than that; at the back of Harriet’s gaze there was a spark of something, of joy at a secret shared.

‘That is my secret. You must not send me away,’ said Joanna. She heard a fervour in her own voice that startled her. ‘Please,’ she said, and then the tears came, falling fast, her breaths ragged as she sought to stifle her sobs.

‘Why should I?’ said Harriet, after a brief silence. She reached out and touched Joanna’s hand. ‘Do not cry; I do not judge you.’

But Joanna did not feel safe; she felt she was digging away the ground from under her feet, but she had to keep digging, as far as she dared. ‘The master thinks I am a disreputable woman,’ she said. ‘He will tell you to send me away.’

‘Why?’ said Harriet. The question had more weight to it than it should have done, and terror rose in Joanna. She opened her mouth to answer it, when she did not know what answer would come. But, with the quickest of movements, Harriet put her finger out and touched Joanna’s lips. ‘Do not tell me,’ she said. Her voice was soft. ‘We can be disgraced together,’ she said. ‘You know, don’t you, about my child? The father?’

Joanna looked; the tears were still falling, and she did not know what to say, but she nodded.

Harriet gave a small, sad smile. ‘The silversmith loved me,’ she said. ‘You are safe. We will weep over our children together.’ And she sat back in her chair, her hands placed absentmindedly over her stomach.

Joanna was exhausted, but her head was clear, when she went to meet Dr Taylor in the staircase hall. It was mid-afternoon but the light was already beginning to fade, and a bored-looking Oliver was taking the doctor’s cloak as Joanna descended the stairs. She prepared herself to be agreeable, but when the doctor turned to her she saw that he was unwilling to speak. He was still the same solid, forward-leaning figure all in black, his shoulders rounded. But he looked desperately tired and preoccupied. She knew of his popularity, and wondered at it; was he up every night, delivering gentle and noble infants, with the face of an undertaker? He apparently had so much work, he had been obliged to give some of his cases to a Mr Cracknell. But then, Harriet had told her that Taylor was the coroner too, which gave him much other work. It must be hard, she thought, moving so swiftly between the cradle and the graveside.

‘Dr Taylor,’ she said, with a curtsey.

He nodded and walked past her. He smelt of sweat and his clothes were emanating a damp stale odour, as though he had been out in the rain too long.

They found Harriet sitting as Joanna had left her: neat and obedient, though a little fidgety.

‘Mr Chichester sent a message to me,’ said Taylor. ‘He said that you told him you were feeling unwell.’

Harriet’s smile faded. Her voice faltered when she replied. ‘I simply said I thought I could feel something,’ she said.

Taylor sat down on the chair Joanna had put beside the bed. His bag landed heavily on the floor next to him.

‘Now, Mrs Chichester,’ he said, rubbing his temples. ‘What is it you felt? You may tell me. Speak with openness, for the sake of your child.’ He put a particular emphasis on the word child. For some reason Joanna found it distasteful; she shivered, and felt her skin prickle, with the sense of trouble to come. Then there were his eyes: his gaze as before was detached, but with trouble at the back of it, as though there was some irritation that needed to be plucked out.

Harriet looked subdued. ‘I care very much for the child,’ she said. ‘My feelings are worry for the child; distress when it moves so, as though it is disturbed.’

Taylor nodded. ‘I should examine you,’ he said. He turned to Joanna. ‘If you could leave us.’

Surprisingly, Harriet said nothing, only sat mute as Joanna left the room to stand on the landing. She closed the door behind her, and stood a yard or so away from it, in case Harriet should call for her. Jane appeared, carrying a tray with two glasses of ratafia. The glasses rattled against each other with each step she took and as she stopped near her, Joanna reached forwards and separated them.

‘Mrs Holland said the doctor might want some, and the mistress too,’ Jane said.

I bet she knocked back a measure herself, thought Joanna. ‘Give it to me,’ she said. ‘You can’t go in there now. I’ll take it myself.’

‘I don’t mind waiting,’ said Jane.

Joanna heard Harriet calling her name.

‘Here, get the door for me!’ she snapped, seizing the tray and backing into the room as Jane released the door.

‘All is well,’ said Harriet brightly, but she sounded shaken. The doctor was standing near the window.

Joanna offered the doctor a drink. He took it and downed it in one gulp, turning away from her as he did so. Joanna put the other down carefully on the small table next to Harriet, then stood near to her, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

‘Now then, Mrs Chichester,’ said Dr Taylor, putting back his glass with a heavy clunk and sitting down. ‘Nothing seems to be amiss. What is it that has really been disturbing you?’

‘I am terrified,’ said Harriet. ‘About the birth.’ The sadness in her voice unsettled Joanna. Harriet played with her dress fretfully, her little hands plucking at it. For all her artifice of the past, Joanna thought this must be the true Harriet, if there was such a thing. She felt sorry for her. Harriet knew the risks of her state. She had told Joanna she felt the chasm of death yawning in front of her. Joanna had almost laughed at the time, but mainly because she knew death, and it was not a chasm, but something unheralded and quick, almost ordinary: a change of light in a room, which you noticed from the corner of your eye.

It is hard for her to explain, thought Joanna. One is dull, when one is with child; she remembered that. Her mind had been like a familiar landscape with a low-hanging mist over it. She had searched for comfort and meaning, but everything had been strange, every step taken carefully with her hands out in front of her.

Harriet tried again. ‘There are such twitchings, such flutterings inside me,’ she said. ‘It is like being possessed by a spirit, sometimes.’

‘An unfortunate phrase to use,’ said Taylor. ‘Ladies do sometimes feel a little delicate; there is a certain sympathy between the womb and the emotions, so some disturbance is quite necessary, and normal. But you must work hard to overcome these strange impressions, especially if they are disagreeable.’

One kind word, thought Joanna. That is all she needs. But even as she thought it she saw Taylor take a breath, as though it took strength to summon his patience. She thought of the crowds on Piccadilly waiting to leave the metropolis from the White Bear. The doctor’s patience is departing now.

‘If you persist in indulging yourself, giving in to dark fancies,’ said the doctor, ‘you may harm the baby. You may leave some impression, all because of your weakness of will.’

‘The feeling of strangeness is natural, surely,’ said Joanna.

The doctor ignored her. ‘It is your duty to rejoice in your state, and to embrace it,’ he said. He seemed bowed down by his thoughts, his head too heavy for his neck. He stared at the floor. ‘It is your duty as a mother,’ he said.

Harriet’s face bore an expression of exaggerated sadness, her lower lip trembling as though she might burst into a fit of weeping. Yet when Taylor raised his eyes to her face, he looked at her with clear contempt. The intensity of his expression scared Joanna. ‘Doctor?’ she said.

He looked at her as though he did not know how he had found his way to this room.

‘I thought you were to be my doctor,’ said Harriet. ‘But I see you are in league with my husband. He wishes to keep me a prisoner.’

‘Your husband is a gentleman,’ said Taylor, ‘and would you call this a prison?’

Joanna stepped forwards, placing a hand lightly but warningly on Harriet’s arm. ‘The mistress does not know what she says,’ she said. ‘She is exhausted. Surely you understand, sir, what a drain it has been for her. She is barely out of childhood herself, and this is her firstborn. She has tender regard for the baby and she weeps at the thought of him coming to any harm.’

She said ‘him’, clearly and purposefully. Her eyes said: she is a carrying an heir, and you are responsible for her. She was satisfied to see the doctor compose himself.

‘I am sure all will be well,’ he said. There was still no gentleness in his tone. He bowed. ‘I wish you good day, Mrs Chichester. I will go and speak to your husband before I leave.’

As the door closed behind him, Harriet rose and put up her hand, to stop Joanna from speaking. After a minute or so, she went to the door and opened it as quietly as possible, and slipped out, closing it behind her.

Joanna waited in an agony of indecision. It was clear to her that Harriet did not wish her to follow, yet as the minutes ticked by she grew more and more afraid. She listened intently for any sounds of an outcry. When the door opened again it made her jump, and she stepped forwards eagerly.

It was Harriet. She looked, if anything, more delicate than before. She sat down. Her expression was set, her lips in a thin line.

‘I listened at the door,’ she said.

‘But Will and Oliver . . .’ said Joanna.

Harriet raised her eyebrows, an expression of grim amusement on her face. ‘They could hardly stop me: I am their mistress,’ she said. The amusement faded. ‘Hackney,’ she said. ‘They mentioned Hackney. They think I am mad – or pretend to at least. They will wait and see; and if I do not improve,’ her voice trembled, ‘they will pile me into a private carriage and send me off to that village as if I never existed. That doctor . . .’ She looked up at Joanna. ‘I believe he hates me more than my husband does.’

Digby had watched long, and little had happened. He was cold, and tired of standing still in the grey light of the afternoon. He was about to turn away and head home when he saw Dr Taylor come out of the front door of the Chichester house. Digby observed him closely, seeing in Taylor’s bowed head and sombre expression a person who was in their own world. But Taylor did something that no one else had done that day. He looked up and noticed Digby.

Digby turned his head away, looking in the opposite direction. But Taylor did not leave it; he crossed the road. As Digby looked back he raised his eyebrows in surprise and respect as with incongruous nimbleness Taylor leapt over a small pile of horse dung.

‘Mr Digby,’ said Taylor, as he reached the railings Digby was leaning on. He was slightly breathless, and his cheeks were pink, whether from cold or exertion it was impossible to tell.

Digby looked at him, but did not take off his hat. ‘Dr Taylor, sir,’ he said, and ducked his head so briefly that Taylor blinked, clearly wondering whether he had seen it or not.

‘I meant to say to you,’ said Taylor. ‘That is, I have meant to say for some time. On the night my good friend, Mr Renard, died, I was harsh to you, I believe. That is, I said some harsh words, and it has played on my conscience.’

Digby gazed at Taylor. He said nothing.

‘I have had some sorrows of late,’ said Taylor. ‘I have been forced to reconsider my position, in many things. But that is by the by. I have come to beg your pardon, Mr Digby. As a Christian, and a man, will you forgive me?’

‘It hardly matters, sir,’ said Digby, his eyes now fixed over Taylor’s shoulder on the front of the Chichester house. ‘But if you wish me to say it, then I do.’

‘Thank you,’ said Taylor, before he turned and hurried away.

Joanna had thought she could slip away, but Harriet extracted a promise from her that she would stay near her during the evening gathering. After dinner Joanna accompanied her to the Salon. The chandelier was lit, and Joanna stood staring at it for some time, unable to take her eyes from the glittering cascade of glass. Harriet moved forwards, looking around the room. ‘It is vast,’ she said, her small voice drifting back to Joanna.