The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (7 page)

‘No,’ said Mallory. Mary saw distress stir in her dark eyes, and knew her sister was fighting it with all the obstinacy of her nature.

Mary pulled up the black sleeve of her dress, turning her wrist to show the underside of her arm. ‘On the night Pierre died, when Dr Taylor came to tell me, I was asleep by the fire. And somehow, I had gained these.’

Mallory stared at the bruises in silence.

‘Did Pierre do that to you?’ she said.

‘No. I told you,’ said Mary. ‘It happened in my sleep.’

‘Not this, again.’ Mallory shook her head. She crouched down beside her sister, and took hold of her hands with a gentleness that surprised Mary. But her gaze was firm, and her tone had a warning note to it. ‘My little sister. Cover your arms. Do not show the world your bruises. At night, blow out your candle, keep your eyes closed. Tell yourself: the dead do not walk. They cannot love, and they cannot hate. You must be strong.’ She sounded tired. ‘You will drive yourself mad, and me too. Speaking of spirits and spectres, rather than the practical matters you should be thinking of.’

‘Surely you can see that he will not leave me in peace,’ said Mary.

‘I do not believe that,’ said Mallory, holding her hands tight. ‘It is the real world that you must deal with. Do you know what our mother would have said?’

Mary nodded, and said the words as though by rote. ‘Bear what you must bear with patience and resignation; give thanks to God for your blessings.’ Their mother had said it often: when trade was poor, when their servant stole from them, when little Eli refused to sleep, shaking his head and smiling as though it was sunrise at two o’clock in the morning, his blue eyes wide with curiosity.

Mallory smiled. ‘I never much cared for patience and resignation; nor for giving thanks, come to that. But bear up, Mary. For God’s sake, bear up. Do not listen for footsteps where there are none.’ As though shaking off her sadness, she gave a short laugh, and turned her face away. ‘What a commotion it was down there. And how it made me laugh, the way that man scared them all out of their wits. Such fine gentlemen, they are. Who was the man at the window?’

‘One of the coroner’s jury,’ said Mary. Her head was beginning to ache.

‘He seemed mighty inquisitive about everything. What did they decide on Pierre’s death?’ said Mallory.

‘They have agreed it was theft; killing by person or persons unknown. Dr Taylor told me the streets are thick with villains. Whoever killed Pierre took his watch. Do you remember it? Such a fancy thing. How he loved it.’ It occurred to her that she hadn’t wanted it, that she had surrendered it with no anguish at all.

‘It didn’t seem so cut-and-dried from the look on that man’s face when he came knocking at your window,’ said Mallory. ‘Nor is it settled in the gossip up and down Bond Street, if what I heard today is anything to go by.’ She caught sight of Mary’s face. ‘We will not think of it any more,’ she said. ‘Whatever happened, it was Pierre’s own fault. Wandering round the streets at night. Going places he had no business to be. His fault, Mary, just as this whole situation is.’ She looked at her sister, long and hard.

But Mary was elsewhere, thinking of the distant past. Why did it come back to her so clearly now? Being held tight by her father as she gazed at the Assay Office dishes of bonemeal, and the man’s voice telling her: ‘We wrap it in lead, Mary, and then, through heat, we separate the noble metals from the base; because as the heat grows strong, everything base is burnt away.’ But you are wrong, she thought, and she wished she could go back and tell the man so. I have been tried, and all that is left of me is the ash of my impurities.

18th May, 1792

Whilst lying awake in bed this morning, I conceived of an excellent plan. I will write to Sarah and offer an apprenticeship to her younger son, gratis. I am sure she would be most grateful for such a prestigious place. I will reassure her that there is no obligation in the case; and assure her that she will always have a friend in me.

I went to see my good friend, Jones, this afternoon, to purchase some tablets for my wife’s headaches. Jones is my age and, like me, was a poor apprentice. He served the apothecary whose business, and wife, he now has, for his former master died some six years ago. He has done me many a service, for at the time we bemoaned our state often and it forged an unbreakable bond between us. It raised my spirits to see him.

When Alban woke, he thought: this is the day, and the jolt was immediate. He and Jesse had put off the visit to Bond Street by two days, not wanting to appear gawpers at a scene where blood had been spilled. As the sleep cleared from his eyes, he saw Jesse, sitting at the table, not watching him, but staring at his hands. Alban sat up, and Jesse put a finger to his lips to signal that Agnes and the children were still sleeping. Alban joined him at the table, moderating his voice so it was a near-whisper, watching Jesse fiddling with his own fingers. He seemed to quiver with nervous energy this morning. ‘We can wait,’ Alban said, wondering if it was wise for his cousin to venture out. ‘It’s a long walk for you.’

‘Only if it’s a bad day,’ said Jesse, with a slight lopsided twitch of his mouth upwards. ‘And it’s not, today: I know it. I feel I could walk to Chester and back, take over your business, cousin, rather than have to deal with all this, hawking for trade at a house in mourning.’

They both dressed as though they were going to church, and set out just as the children were waking, their small voices pealing through the morning air as Jesse shut the door behind them. The sky was dark blue, suggesting evening rather than morning, and they walked briskly in the cold air. They travelled without speaking, peaceably, as they were wont to do as young men, threading their way through the narrow streets of the City, the cries of the street sellers beginning, the black shapes of kites hovering above.

As the sun rose fully their spirits rose with it, both of them walking with their shoulders back, turning their faces up to the light. Jesse looked at Alban and smiled. ‘Your face is like a sundial, cousin,’ he said. ‘By the fire of an evening you seem ageless as silver, but catch you in the morning light and I can see the days and hours there, in the way the shadows fall.’

Alban shoved him. ‘Damn the light,’ he said, and at the sound of Jesse’s laugh he wished they could walk forever, and never reach Bond Street.

Imagining this moment had been uncomplicated; after all, what was it but the putting of one foot in front of the other? But Alban had not reckoned on the feelings that grew ever more intense as they neared their destination, the inner world that distracted him from the cold and the searing blue sky. His physical reactions gave the lie to his normal stillness. I will not stop, he thought, his stubbornness saving him: I will go forwards, I have decided it. But as they turned off Piccadilly he paused, for half a second, and hoped that Jesse did not notice it.

The street they found was at once foreign to Alban, and familiar. His memories of it had grown fainter over the years and he had dwelt on it for two nights; flashes of the past, seen through his own eyes when he had been an altogether different man.

When he had first known Bond Street, Pierre Renard had not owned a shop there. Now Alban tried to think of him dispassionately, as a stranger whom he could at least shade with the neutral respect one gave to the dead. But always, when he thought of Renard he thought of the day he had met Mary, and it was impossible to be neutral. He could not trust his own judgement in the case.

Today they reached Bond Street at an early hour, so there were no throngs of fashionable shoppers as there would be later in the day, and he was tempted to stand still and look around, to place the template of his memory over the subtly changed landscape.

Alban was thankful for his cousin’s presence. Had Jesse not been there, he suspected he would not have turned down the street at all, would have instead kept walking down Piccadilly. He would have been the Alban of old, taking himself away, dissolving into the tides of London, lost in the comfort of being anonymous. He would not have gone far; perhaps only to St James’s Piccadilly where, he thought, if he would not pray because he believed in nothing, he could at least find silence.

Jesse said nothing and they continued walking, until he put his arm out and halted Alban. ‘There,’ he said, and pointed to a handsome double dwelling on the other side of the street. The building had bowed windows chequered with fine glass and their surface rippled and caught the light. Alban noticed that the windows were empty, and the shelves draped with black velvet.

Alban found his cousin watching him with nervous intensity. ‘It’s Renard’s, yes?’ he said, and Jesse nodded. ‘So why are we standing here?’ Alban said.

‘You think I don’t have a memory?’ said Jesse. ‘You’re a close one, alright. But I know why you went back to Chester all those years ago. She lives, you know. But she is much altered.’

Suddenly Alban had an image of Mary as a plump matron, surrounded by Renard’s unattractive children. ‘Should I laugh or cry?’ he asked.

‘Make a jest of it if you wish,’ said Jesse.

They crossed the street, dodging a carriage, and Jesse tapped on the window of the shop, catching the eye of a dark-haired man in the shadows, who came straight to the door. Alban could feel the tension vibrate through him; he felt sick in his stomach. But, once inside, the shop was empty, the only noise someone whistling in the small workshop beyond. Alban felt suddenly empty and deflated. Trust you, he thought, anticipating everything when really there is nothing. He looked around the fine, handsome room, its walls covered with glazed presses. A long counter displaying trays of mourning rings, jewellery and seals was dotted with pale marks; fingerprints, he realized, and when he saw Jesse looking at them too, he warranted Pierre Renard would have had them cleaned away.

Jesse introduced the man as John Grisa, Renard’s shop manager. He was a slim man with quick, dark eyes, a mobile, expressive face, and dextrous hands in constant motion. He nodded to Alban, and even Alban could see the spark of interest in his eye.

‘My poor Monsieur Renard,’ Grisa said, and with a flourish produced a square of silk that he used to dab his dry eyes. ‘We found his will earlier today.’

‘May we present our condolences to Mrs Renard?’ said Jesse. He glanced at Alban, who was staring stolidly at the floor in front of him.

Grisa clicked his tongue.
‘Non, non,
there is no need for that. She receives no one but family at the moment.’ He rolled his eyes upwards. ‘And she would not know who you are. She is – what? –
insensible.’

Jesse swallowed hard. Alban read the irritation in his seemingly calm expression; his cousin had known Mary and her family since childhood. To be dismissed so was irritating, but he was obviously used to it. ‘Will you tell her, though?’ he said.

Grisa nodded, and clicked his fingers, which seemed to be a sign to move the conversation on.

‘Do you have any work for us?’ Jesse said baldly.

Grisa’s imperious expression cracked open with grim amusement. ‘Of course, of course. I have no idea why the English find violent death so enthralling, but we have more orders than ever. Yesterday, I have to send the boy to turn people from the door, at this season, can you imagine? Monsieur Renard would have been in ecstasy. And yes, we have work for you: if you hadn’t come I would have sent to you today. There was no need to come here with sympathy.’

Alban’s heightened senses faded Grisa’s voice out as he heard someone descending the stairs: the light footsteps of a woman, the sweep of heavy skirts. The door linking the house to the shop was shut, but he fixed his gaze on the crack beneath the door, as though he might sight movement there. Sure enough, he did: the movement of dark over light; feet halting, then heading off again. He heard the front door open and shut, and saw her walk past the window. She was moving quickly so he had only the briefest impression: of reddish-brown hair, lightly powdered, haloed by the winter light, a tiny figure, not dressed for the cold, and pale skin. He could not see her face: she did not glance back at the shop. But there was something indefinable about the way she moved, about the curve of her cheek. It was her; it was definitely Mary: ten years older, thinner, and fading; the life almost gone. What remained was only a signifier of what she had once been, like the painting of a saint on a church triptych.

He had turned to watch her pass the window, and felt Jesse’s warning touch on his arm. When he turned back, it seemed Grisa had not noticed his interest; his eyes too had followed his mistress. His lips were pursed in amusement. ‘And she flies again,’ he said. ‘No hat, no cloak. See how she races towards death? It is no surprise that she is desolate; how do you replace such a husband? Come into the workshop, and I will give you my orders. We must be quick; my day will be full once the agents arrive.’

Grisa seemed to speak forever, his voice running on and on until Alban’s attention faded away. Half an hour later, Alban and Jesse emerged into the light, their heads full of instructions.

Alban looked down the street in the direction he had seen Mary walk. ‘She looked like a ghost,’ he said.

‘I told you,’ said Jesse, tucking some papers into his coat pocket. ‘She’s a weak, bloodless thing now. He sucked the life out of her. Never let anyone near her.’ He touched Alban’s arm. ‘Stop staring after her. Let’s have a pint of something. Celebrate our commissions, and my new child.’

The close, dark-panelled room of the Red Lion in Crown Passage was nearly empty, but the smell of sawdust, burnt meat and ale sent Alban back eleven years. As he accepted a cup of porter from Jesse, he saw a man watching from a bench in the corner. The man had red hair, and though he was sitting in a hunched position, had a kind of contained hauteur that drew the eye. He looked at Alban with unashamed directness.

‘Jesse,’ the man said. ‘Who’s this you’ve brought with you?’

Jesse twisted round and smiled. ‘My cousin from Chester, come to seek his fortune in the city,’ he said. ‘Alban, this is Edward Digby.’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Digby, his hand curled tight around his pint pot, though he had not drunk from it since they’d entered the taproom.

‘You’ll forgive me when I say I don’t remember,’ said Alban.

Digby took a large gulp of his drink. ‘I never forget a face,’ he said, and a smile dawned over his features, followed by a low gasp of laughter that graduated into a cough. He did not get up, or offer his hand, but Alban had the sense it was more through his weariness that he did not observe the niceties of introduction. It was his policy to refuse to see malice unless it declared itself.

Digby ground his jaw. ‘This city is a cruel mistress, sir,’ he said. ‘She will chew you up and spit you out. Best go back to Chester, where the air is pure and business is straightforward.’

Alban smiled and took a mouthful of porter. ‘It’s clear you don’t know Chester,’ he said, and Jesse laughed. ‘Besides, I’m no stranger to London. She is my old sweetheart, and perhaps she’ll welcome me back.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Digby ‘Where’ve you been, this time of day?’

‘Bond Street,’ said Jesse.

A snigger escaped from Digby’s throat, then he began to cough again. ‘Easy there,’ said Jesse.

Digby came up for air, gasping. ‘Bond Street,’ he said. ‘Full of gentlemen. I was followed down it by our gracious Mr Maynard today, wishing to speak to me urgently. No,’ he shook his head, ‘you can’t move for gentlemen round here.’

He tutted under his breath, took a final swig of his drink, and got up to leave without another word.

As the door banged behind him, Jesse looked at Alban and smiled. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘The man has black humours sometimes, and when he’s in them he puts a sour cast on everything.’

‘I didn’t listen,’ said Alban, taking another mouthful of porter. He watched as Jesse gulped down one pot and ordered another. After some time, he tapped his cousin’s arm. ‘But should we not go, Jesse? We have much to keep us occupied.’ His cousin assented with a grunt.

The streets were busier now; the air filled with the sound of voices and the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels. On Piccadilly, Jesse turned right. He was walking quickly, and as Alban accelerated to keep up, he saw his cousin’s breath misting before him in the cold air; he was breathing quickly. The early sunshine had given way to a darkening sky. ‘Jesse,’ he called. ‘Where are you going?’ It certainly wasn’t the quickest way home, he muttered under his breath. If they carried on in this direction before long they would hit street walkers and villains and be carried along on a tide to God knows where.

‘Jesse,’ he said again.

His cousin stopped so suddenly that an old woman selling eggs walked into the back of them, and cursed them. As Alban mollified her, handing her a coin for the crushed eggs, he saw disquiet writ plain across his cousin’s features.

‘Agnes asked me to call on Mallory,’ he said. ‘I promised her.’ He had the look of a man whose courage had failed him.

‘A good idea,’ said Alban. ‘You said the other night you meant to visit her; that she had some repairs for you.’ He could not help but feel hope rise in him; it was the thought of hearing more of Mary. Her elder sister could always be relied upon for frankness: that, Alban remembered from the way Jesse had talked about her. When he had come to London long ago, as a child, the families had been close. Jesse had been apprenticed to Mary and Mallory’s father before being turned over to another silversmith, and he had once been thought of as a match for Mallory. It was all long ago, but Jesse had maintained a brotherly affection for both girls. Though he hardly saw them, it was always there, underlying everything, to be called on at times of trouble.