The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (25 page)

13th September, 1792

I return again to the blessings of yesterday, which have hardly left my mind for a moment except in the execution of business.

When the footman showed me to her boudoir there was nothing in his expression. After all, I have been sent up there many times by Mr Chichester. When I entered the room I hardly knew what awaited me. Only that, after the door had closed behind me, she went to it, and locked it, then turned to me, those beautiful eyes alight. Her expression lit such afire in me that I hardly knew what I did. Only now can I savour it: the feeling of her lips beneath mine, the trembling of her body. I took her.

I had my satisfaction, as, may I hazard, did she: she did tremble so violently around and beneath me that it inflames me even to think of it. She cried out my name, so that I was obliged to put my hand over her mouth. Never had my wife cried out for me as she did; never for a moment looked at me in that way, as though I was a vision of heaven before her eyes. ‘I am dying,’ she said to me, and I held her to me, feeling her heart beat quick and fast, her body run through with pleasure.

‘Come in with me,’ Joanna said that night.

They managed it quietly enough, though Digby sensed her tension with every step on the stair. She had bribed Mrs Holland to let her borrow the key to the back door, but it was important that no other servant should see them. ‘Never again,’ she said, smiling, as she locked her bedroom door then, as an extra measure, dragged her locking box in front of it, and he reached out to pull her to him. He had given her a gift: a small folding knife with a mother-of-pearl handle, ‘So you can defend yourself, when you come out to me at night,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘With a blade this short? I should have been better off with a dessert knife.’

‘You are too practical,’ he said, sounding hurt. ‘I thought its prettiness would appeal to you.’

‘And so it does,’ she said, kissing it, and placing it on the locking box carefully, as though it was the most precious of love tokens.

It was the first time Digby had lain with her, and it had its own kind of unreality, like the dreams she had spoken of to him, so that afterwards he wondered if he really was there, in that garret room, with the moon shining in on them and all of London sleeping below.

‘Shall we go to the theatre?’ he said, his fingertips tapping up and down her spine slowly to the tune of a ballad singer he had heard in the street. ‘I will buy you a seat in the first gallery.’

She took up his fantasy without hesitation. ‘And shall we send our man ahead to save the seats?’ she said.

‘We shall,’ he said, shifting, and kissing the top of her head.

She had told him things: of the things she saw and imagined, which seemed real to her. Nothing had been denied between them. He did not shrink from the slack, pale skin on her stomach, stretched long ago by pregnancy then let loose, so it lay as thin as tissue, with its small wrinkles and lines. He dipped his face to kiss it. She had thought men were incapable of such tenderness.

‘I had a child once,’ she said. ‘A daughter. She is dead.’

‘What of the father?’ he said.

‘He is dead too. I had only one thing of his, and it is gone. A lock of his hair, in a pendant. I gave it to Mr Renard to make, and now it is lost.’

Digby hid his face in her shoulder. He kissed her once, twice, three times, his mouth finding her neck. She held him, and after innumerable minutes, she heard his breathing deepen into sleep.

Her eyes moved across the room, taking in every detail, as she savoured the quiet moments, and the sound of his breathing. Her gaze halted on his clothes, hastily thrown to the floor. On the glint of gold, at the edge of his pocket.

She carefully moved out of his embrace, inching her way, stopping each time he stirred and letting him settle. She got out of bed, slowing every movement so as not to wake him. She took two steps across the floor, and crouched down beside the pile of clothes. What she had caught sight of was a gold link; part of a chain. She pulled it, felt the weight of something, then a watch emerged. The most beautiful watch she had ever seen.

The look on Joanna’s face had unsettled Digby. He had woken suddenly, in the dense darkness of her room, and when he turned he saw that she was awake, but staring at the ceiling. She had submitted to his kiss, then had seen him out of the house quietly, with only the faintest of smiles. As he walked away, he knew he should be happy, but the tenderness they had shared had been diluted by the odd, sad look on her face, and the tentative way in which she had said goodnight.

He kept awake until morning, walking circuit after circuit of the square, and having received Watkin’s pledge that he would be covered for the next night, went home. He slept a while, and woke, and coughed a good deal. It was a pattern he repeated over the day, until he checked his watch and knew he should take his place in the Red Lion, for he liked to be early for all appointments.

As Maynard entered the Red Lion, Digby could see he wasn’t even making the effort to look cordial.

‘So?’ he said, taking his gloves off.

Digby gestured to the stool opposite him. He had chosen it on purpose, as he had liked its effect last time: a small, three-legged stool, shorter than the bench he sat upon, so Maynard’s grand, elegant bulk sank until his eyes were lower than Digby’s. He smiled at the displeasure filtering through Maynard’s eyes; at the sense of him calculating whether he could rise again and cast the stool off for something more appropriate to his dignity.

‘Don’t mind if I do, sir,’ said Digby, raising his drink high and then knocking back the dregs.

Maynard sighed and signalled to the landlord. ‘I’m surprised you’re not out on the watch,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit late for you, isn’t it?’

‘Night off,’ said Digby. ‘It does happen sometimes. If one has important business.’ As the landlord collected his tankard to refill it, he rubbed his hands together under the table, watching as Maynard wiped away a small tear of brown mucus trickling from his nostril. He almost asked for a pinch of snuff himself, then decided against it. He was glad he’d bribed Watkin and Brown to cover for him. He had no stomach for going out there tonight.

‘You said you wanted me to keep an eye on things,’ he said, glancing about him. When he looked back, Maynard seemed nonplussed. ‘You know,’ said Digby. ‘This and that.’

‘You’d better mean Renard,’ said Maynard. His nose was twitching. Digby knew the man wanted to take his snuffbox out and take a good pinch of it, another, then another.

‘Yes,’ he said, and sat back as the landlord banged down his pint of porter. He noticed Mr Maynard had got a glass of red wine.

‘I was thinking about him,’ he said. ‘That night I found him, the way he was lying. Clear to me someone came up from behind, surprised him. So what was he doing there, bang slap in the middle of Berkeley Square, middle of the night, putting himself at risk of footpads?’

‘You are covering old ground, Digby,’ said Maynard. He turned the glass by its stem, staring into the wine.

‘We’ll never know why he was there, that’s what I think,’ said Digby. ‘But that doesn’t mean we won’t ever know why someone killed him. He was damn near one of the houses, too. One particular house: opposite it.’

He paused, and saw with satisfaction that Maynard was watching him. He knew the occupants of the houses: the Earl of Orford; two or three unoccupied; Lady Mary Clare; James Stewart; Lord Ducie; the list went on and on. Sitting before his meagre fire the day before, Digby had ruminated over the Chichesters and their connection with Renard. Once or twice he had seen Mrs Chichester at the first-floor window of their house. Not that a real lady would have allowed herself to be seen at the window so. He had only noticed her as one more thing to hate: a young woman with golden hair and empty features like those of a doll; her head an empty shell of porcelain, nodding on its slim neck.

‘I went to the Running Footman the other night,’ he said. ‘Made enquiries.’

Maynard looked nonplussed, and Digby wondered whether his ignorance was real. Had the gentleman ever threaded his way through the press of servants, incognito, hearing their voices raised in description of their masters, their laughter, the room warmed by their breaths and bodies? One of the footmen hadn’t wanted to stop talking.

‘He had customers there, sir, on that side of the square. The Chichester family. Maybe he’d called on them, that night.’

There had been a scene in that house, the footman had said, his slippery face full of laughter. The maid he was tupping had seen the letter on the bed as Mrs Chichester was being calmed by her lady’s maid after a crying fit. She was a smart girl, he said. She read enough to know the letter was telling of Mr Renard’s death. ‘There was more than one letter from that direction, when he lived,’ he said, leering. ‘Let’s just say he called often on the master . . . and, mainly, the mistress. But then, who can blame her?’

Digby held back from saying it. He took a sip of his drink, not caring for the silence and Maynard’s blank expression. ‘I’ve heard of the boy,’ said Maynard, frowning. ‘But not as anyone of influence.’

Digby weighed up how much he could say, and felt the unfamiliar taint of panic infect his judgement. Will the footman was hardly a reliable source. Apparently only three months ago he claimed to have bedded the chandler’s wife and earned himself a sound beating that had temporarily blemished his good looks. The boy took great pleasure in hinting, in sliding his tongue around and making the ordinary seem suggestive.
He called mainly on the mistress.
To hint that Renard may have warmed the bed of Mrs Chichester would be like saying that the Virgin Mary had screwed a pimp in a back alley off Piccadilly.

‘There was one other thing,’ Digby said.

‘Out with it then,’ said Maynard, who seemed to be growing tenser by the moment.

Digby leaned forwards, projecting a whisper into Maynard’s face. ‘They happened to mention to me. Mr Chichester. His taste for entertainment – that is, he looks in the direction of young boys. I’ve seen him struggle with one myself of a night, though I could hardly swear to it that was what he was after. But he has a bad reputation amongst the servants, and he’s so high and mighty, more than one of them would like to see him brought low. I wondered, sir. Mr Renard was killed right near Mr Chichester’s house. It would have been mighty easy to mistake them in the night.’

Maynard stared at the table, with the expression of someone in the process of losing his self-control. ‘I thought you had something of substance for me, Digby,’ he said. ‘I asked you to look into Renard’s affairs. But you bring me servants’ tittle-tattle about people who are so far above you, you should not even speak their names. Do not repeat that foul assertion, to anyone. Do you understand me?’

‘I thought you wanted the truth, sir,’ said Digby.

Maynard brought his fist down on to the table with a bang. The suddenness and force of it shocked Digby. He said nothing, only looked at Maynard’s face, unsure of what to do or say, and fearful of the cold anger in his eyes.

‘Go to the devil,’ Maynard said. ‘This is claptrap. There is something you’re not telling me. I see it, behind your eyes. And I will find it out.’

14th September, 1792

One woman is surely not enough for a man. I mean that not in reference to my appetites, but in the simple matter of practicality. For when a woman is lacking in one element, or more, it is natural to tire of her, and to seek comfort elsewhere.

I am a reflective man. Others think me driven by money and business, and I understand that it may seem that way to them. But I also have a relationship with my maker. In the eyes of the world, what I did yesterday was a sin. Yet I know, and I think the knowledge God-given, that it was not. I know, with the certainty that God will be merciful to me, that I have planted a seed in the lady. It is God’s will, perhaps, that my son will be born to her.

The man that arrived on Bond Street with his coach and four was dressed finely, but had never learned how to marry colours together. He wouldn’t listen to his valet; he had his own regime, as he called it, his own scheme. Besides, he said, with evident pride, he had been used to working in one colour only, and that was silver.

Thomas Havering had once been a silversmith on Bond Street, and his reputation still stalked the street like a wraith, sometimes taking monstrous shapes. The money he had accumulated through his business and two judicious marriages had bought him a country seat near Uxbridge. Once a fixture in the clubs, societies and civic life of his London parish, he now breathed clean air and had a staff of fifteen. London might pulse only distantly on the horizon, but he monitored its heartbeat. He had learned of Pierre’s death from the newspapers, and also because of a letter from Taylor, an old friend, notifying him that a debt Renard had owed him would shortly be settled by the dead man’s administrators. Havering liked dabbling on Bond Street, as a grandparent dandles a small child on its knee: the distance between him and it provided a channel for agreeable feelings to flow in.

It was from pride that Mary dressed well on the morning of Havering’s visit. She wore her best black gown and a thick black ribbon around her neck. She felt as though she was building her defences, adding rouge to her pale cheeks. When she had finished she looked feverish and unlike herself, but felt as though she had put in place another layer of protection between her and the world. When she came down the stairs and into the shop Alban and Grisa ceased speaking, and, in concert, looked her up and down.

‘It is quiet,’ she said. ‘Is there no one about today?’

‘It is early, madame,’ said Grisa.

Alban said nothing. He leaned on the counter, and only took his eyes from her after a long moment, turning his whole body towards the shop manager. ‘What were we saying?’ he said to Grisa.

‘The York designs,’ said Grisa. ‘I will get them from the workshop.’

As he bustled off Alban looked back at Mary; there was no warmth in his expression.

‘Why are you looking at me so?’ she said. ‘Is there something amiss?’

He moved a piece of paper on the counter. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Grisa tells me Thomas Havering is coming today. And I see you have prepared for him.’

Mary stared at him. The coldness of his voice shocked her. ‘What do you mean by saying this to me?’ she said. Her throat felt tight and constricted.

He gave a little shake of his head; she took a step forwards. ‘We are friends, are we not?’ she said firmly.

‘I had thought so,’ he said, but when he raised his eyes to her face they were blank and unfamiliar, as though every defence in his armoury had fallen into place. ‘That day in church, you spoke to me as though I was motivated by money. You mistook me, and judged me, and I let it pass. And now this – for him. I will say only that we cannot go back in time, Mrs Renard. For a moment, I thought we could.’

Mary heard Grisa returning. As he came through the door she pushed past him, and ran upstairs. She went to her chamber, and when Avery came in, exclaiming that Mary had got ready without her, she had already rubbed the rouge away.

When Thomas Havering approached the shop on Bond Street, it was with an exaggeratedly indulgent expression that could be seen from the upstairs window. He was projecting the expression as though he was on stage. His coachman struggled wildly with four nervy, ill-matched chestnuts.

‘I bet he bought them cheap,’ muttered Mallory under her breath. She and Avery stood, either side of the sash window, trying to keep out of sight.

‘Good God, what a vehicle,’ said Avery. ‘He’s driven the family manor into town.’

‘Hush,’ said Mary, as she heard the front door open. ‘Oh no, you can hear him a mile away. He makes Grisa sound like a whispering maiden, and you know how his voice carries.’ She felt faintly nauseous, and was still angry at Alban. Ponderous footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, and Mary and Mallory rose as the door opened. Avery sat in the corner, leafing through a book, playing the invisible companion.

‘Ah, Mrs Renard. My condolences.’ Havering made a low bow, raising himself with a slight wince. As he turned he looked fully at Mallory, and his eyes flickered.

So you do remember, thought Mary: Mallory as a child, pelting you with stones within the City walls because she’d taken against you. What a hiding our father gave her for that. You said she had eyes so hard they could chisel the heart out of a man.

Havering seated himself on a chair with his back half-turned to Mallory. ‘I have been staying with my friend, the Reverend Mr Pincher, on Dover Street,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you know of him?’

‘We are not closely connected,’ said Mary.

Havering gave a little nod, and a grunt. ‘I was most concerned to hear of your situation, my dear Mrs Renard,’ he said. ‘I remember you as a child. You have grown into a beauty, indeed.’

Mary felt unable to flatter him. Seeing the older man had brought back her image of the younger one. He had the same bulbous nose and protruding lower lip; the only change was that his features had grown coarser over the years. He had once spent much on his attire, and obviously still did, though the colours clashed terrifyingly But age and success had taken away the need for beauty; and he bore himself as though his every feature was a thing to be proud of, from his reddened, vein-crazed face and large stomach to the small belch he now gave. He carried himself with a sense of pride and honour, and Mary wondered how well Pierre had known him, and whether he had studied him.

‘And how is your family, sir?’ she said, struggling to steer the conversation away from her situation.

‘Alas, my poor Jane, I lost some months ago,’ he said. ‘I, myself, have designed a very handsome memorial for her in our parish church; it is a new church, and she is the first to go into the vault.’

‘How agreeable for her,’ said Mallory.

Havering licked his lips, and bit the bottom one, turning it an alarming purple colour. He ignored Mallory. ‘If I could ever be a friend to you, my dear,’ he said. ‘I have a country estate, you know. Far from the reaches of the London smoke. The fresh air would do wonders for your beautiful complexion.’

‘You are most kind to mention it,’ said Mary. ‘But I am well enough here.’

‘Are you really?’ he said. His face pantomimed astonishment. He looked around the room, as though he was making an inventory of its contents. ‘Restricted to these small rooms, above a shop? Not mistress of your own house? Of course, you know I am owed no small amount. I will not call it in, yet, of course. I do not need it. But for you to be here, my dear, must be an almost intolerable burden. The business is for the men to deal with, and you must sit here, alone, isolated from society, it seems, with the rumours growing more poisonous as every day passes. Your window, I heard, was smashed. Your lodgers have deserted you.’ He paused, and licked his lips again.

‘Shall I call for tea?’ said Mallory. Havering acknowledged her words with a startled and anticipatory look, but Mary shook her head.

‘I am well aware of the state of Mr Renard’s will,’ said Havering, twirling his cane. ‘And it only reinforced my impression that one should never trust a Frenchman.’

‘You trusted him enough to do business with him,’ said Mary. As Mallory tried to rise she reached out and held her arm.

‘That was business,’ said Havering. ‘I have come here, and on seeing you, I resolve not to speak of business, but of something else. I am a wealthy man. There was a time, Mrs Renard, when I thought of you as a bride for me, though your father thought you too young.’

Mary glanced at Mallory and saw that her sister was staring at the floor.

‘The years have passed. They have been kind to me, and God has given me many blessings. They have not been so kind to you, but you are still the delicate creature I remember. I would dearly wish to watch you flourish. My house is near Uxbridge; it has a most comely view of my lands.’

‘You have yet mentioned the house,’ said Mary, standing. She felt her natural stubbornness spring to life: she had thought it long lost. Remembered her mother raising her hand to her as a child. ‘Please excuse me, sir,’ she said.

Mallory rose too, and smiled at Havering. ‘My sister is unwell,’ she said, in that resonant voice of hers, as if her words were meant to carry down the stairs and into the shop. ‘She needs rest, as I’m sure you understand. We thank you for your visit.’

She half-dragged Mary into an unwilling curtsey.

Havering stared at them. ‘Consider what I have said. I hear they never found the desperate person who killed Mr Renard. It would do you good, Mrs Renard, to be gone from here. I should hate to think of any harm befalling you.’

‘She will think on it, sir,’ said Mallory. ‘We thank you for your visit.’

After he had gone, Mallory went to the window and watched him emerge on to Bond Street.

‘You didn’t even serve him tea,’ said Avery, smiling as she turned another page of her book.

Mallory snorted. ‘He is rich,’ she said. ‘And I am persuaded of two things: that he would not be cruel to you, and that he would die fairly soon, if his complexion is anything to go by.’

‘You wish me to be chained up again?’ said Mary. ‘After everything that has happened?’

‘I wish to protect you. That wretched Benjamin is returning tomorrow. Every time I see him he becomes more vicious-looking – I can hardly sleep at the thought of him being under this roof with you. And better chained to Havering than to poverty,’ said Mallory.

Avery sighed. ‘Fie, Mall,’ she said. ‘You have answers for everything; and all of them so disagreeable.’

‘Pierre wanted to be like that man,’ said Mary.

‘Yes, but Havering is nothing like him,’ said Mallory. ‘He is an indulgent old man. Look at him: his stomach precedes him.’

Mary joined her sister at the window, standing back in case he should turn and look up at them, taken by a fancy that he was being watched. Havering was traversing Bond Street, his carriage having taken a turn around the block. He was walking quickly, swinging his silver-knopped stick with some force. A young boy passing by must have made a comment, for he swung at him, and got a hit.

‘Time was he was so powerful those crowds would have parted for him like the Red Sea,’ said Mallory. ‘Even now, he can still protect you.’

‘I thought you wished me to become strong,’ said Mary.

‘So I do,’ said Mallory. ‘But a husband such as him would help you in that; and besides, there is the money.’

Mary did not go to dinner that evening. She lay on her bed, trying to imagine what life as Mrs Havering would be like, far from the city, and with such a husband as the old silversmith. She wondered whether Mallory was right. In this house she would never be free of Pierre; with every breath she breathed in the scent of him, she slept under the linen he had chosen, and told the hour of the day by his lantern clock. His death still haunted her; it would only take a moment’s reverie before she saw him watching her dully as the tide of crimson spread around him. When the window had been broken in the shop she had not shown her fear, but inside she thought, just for a moment: he has come for me.

When she went down to lock the doors, Alban was still on the shop floor, putting away a display of seals.

‘Mr Steele,’ she said. He bowed, but would not look at her, only assisted her with the locking, and lifted the bar over the house door. When he had done it, he stood with his hands on the bar.

‘I must beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘I did not wish to wound you earlier. I was presumptuous. The subject of your marriage is none of my business.’

Mary clutched the keys tightly, and held her candlestick up so that the light would be clear between them. ‘I should have told you, earlier,’ she said. ‘I have tried to go back in time myself, and if I could have done it by wishing, I would. But you are quite right, Mr Steele. It is impossible.’