Martha had little to complain about in Hester’s work, but her resentment never eased and she found fault constantly out of general irritation. Moreover Hester was growing up. An exuberance of life and a quickness of spirit had remanifested itself in her not long after her arrival at the Heathcock. Sometimes wilful, alarmingly fiery-tempered when roused and frequently exasperating, she was nevertheless always conscientious about the chores she had to do. ‘I’ve finished that task,’ was often a reply from her when asked why she was not washing pots, or folding linen, or cleaning cupboards.
Martha found such youthful vitality increasingly irksome, especially when her back ached and her feet were tired. It was impossible not to notice that Hester was blooming, a new lustre giving highlights to the rich colour of her hair, her brows and lashes darkening while there was an added translucent quality to her alabaster skin. Soon she had grown quite tall and her fuller, softer curves meant the expense of new dresses which suited her, for Jack insisted she be well clad as a young woman should be, with an end to hand-me-downs from Martha’s clothespress. For the first time Martha became conscious of her own years and the lines that paint and powder could no longer hide. A bitter jealousy of the young girl’s charms began to take over from her long-held resentment until it bordered dangerously on hatred.
With restrictions long since lifted on going out alone, Hester had come to know London well, usually on errands for Martha. Much of the oldest part had been redesigned as well as rebuilt over the past decades since the Great Fire, and the city had expanded widely in all directions with beautiful architecture, new long streets, parks and leafy squares. In contrast there remained ancient alleyways and slums where thousands lived in squalor, their misfortunes a shadow across a prosperous land where roast beef was the daily fare of the middle classes and vast fortunes grew on commerce at home and abroad.
There were few highlights in her hard-working existence which was why an exhibition proved to be an event of some magnitude to her. One of the Heathcock’s patrons was a goldsmith named Harwood, a big portly man with a florid complexion and one of the most prosperous master craftsmen in his field in London. He was also a powerful voice in the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, which dated back to the twelfth century and, with strict rules, maintained the rigidly high standard of work in English gold and silver. He was in the habit of inviting fellow master craftsmen and merchants to discuss business matters over dinner at the Heathcock, quite apart from having a tankard of ale on his own in the taproom at quite regular intervals. Now and again he and his wife brought friends to supper there in a private parlour after the theatre and Martha took their orders herself, putting her best waiting-maids to serve them. Recently his daughter, Caroline, his only child and the apple of his eye, had been included in the supper parties when the theatrical entertainment attended beforehand had been deemed suitable for a young girl, her age being no more than Hester’s.
One evening when there was only male company present, and a profitable business deal had gone through over the food and wine, Master Harwood, bloated and flushed from all he had eaten and drunk, issued an invitation to Jack and Martha to attend an exhibition at the Goldsmiths Hall where some of the objects displayed were from his own workshop.
‘I’ve enjoyed the best that you can produce in the good wine and victuals that my guests and I have been served with this evening. Now it is your turn to come and see the best that I can produce, which will surely measure up to your pigeon-and-mushroom pie.’ He laughed heartily at his own joke, which was an indication of the success of the evening and the amount of wine he had drunk, for he was by no means jovial by nature and his face was granite-like and harsh-jawed in repose. But he spent lavishly, never questioned the Needhams’ honesty by querying the bill, and those whom he introduced to the tavern invariably came back to be regular patrons of the Heathcock themselves, spreading its good name still further.
‘You do us much honour, sir.’ Jack bowed low and Martha curtsied. It was expected that those in a lower position should be obsequious, and Jack would have had no qualms about kneeling to polish a patron’s boots if it meant increased trade and money in the coffers. Martha had her limits, but she was highly flattered by the invitation.
‘We shall attend, sir.’ Quite pink in the cheeks and curtsying again.
When the day came she had developed a streaming cold and was unable to venture out. Jack, who had no interest in the exhibition, still felt obliged to go. ‘You can come with me,’ he said to Hester. ‘We needn’t stay long. It’s just so I can say I was there.’
The Goldsmiths Hall was a distinguished building with fine windows, a grand entrance, and crystal chandeliers shining on carved and polished woodwork within. It was to this place that new goldsmiths came after completing their seven years’ apprenticeship to register their individual punchmark, or the ‘touch’ as it was known in the trade, which would identify their work for all time. Once granted the Freedom of the Company, they were able to work for any master or set up on their own and certain privileges went with their position that were denied ordinary craftsmen in what was one of the most aesthetically rewarding trades that any man could follow.
‘Don’t be nervous, lass,’ Jack said to her, thoroughly uncomfortable himself in such a grand setting. Footmen were posted at intervals to bow the visitors through to the great chamber where the gold- and silverware was on display. To add to the magic for Hester everybody present was extremely well dressed, many in silks and brocades. Yet all else paled before the sight that met her when the exhibits came into view. Set on velvet-draped stands, tasselled cords dividing them off by no more than a foot or two from the public, were gold and silver articles of such magnificence that she was captivated instantly by the dazzling spectacle. In contrast to the utensils used at the Heathcock, here everything that could possibly be used at a table or sideboard was fashioned out of the two most beautiful metals in all the world.
‘Hell’s bells!’ Jack exclaimed, struck only by the monetary value of the display. ‘Whatever would this lot be worth then?’
Hester was beyond speech. She had seen beautiful church plate, although never at these close quarters, and there had always been glass between herself and displays in goldsmiths’ shop windows. Here, with plenty of sunshine pouring through the tall windows, neither the gleam nor the radiance could hide the intricate results of superb craftsmanship.
Jack began craning his neck to see where the Harwood exhibits were located, intending to view them briefly and leave again. Hester pulled at his sleeve. ‘Let’s look at everything,’ she implored.
He always wore a fob-watch on a gold chain, and he cupped it in his broad palm to study the time. ‘I can’t stay more than another five minutes. Not with Martha in the state she is and only one barman in the taproom. You may stay as long as you like as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Then let me stay.’
‘Very well then. But don’t let anyone else know I let you have the time off.’ He placed a finger beside his nose and winked to cement their little conspiracy. She knew full well that by ‘anyone’ he meant his wife and she gave a nod of endorsement.
He left her in front of the Harwood display. In the centre of it was the paraphernalia needed for the growing fashion of drinking tea, all of it arranged on a rosewood tray-top table. Since tea was vastly expensive, teapots were small and this one was octagonal in shape, which was quite beautiful. The kettle on its lampstand, from which the lady of the house would pour boiling water on to the tea leaves, was the same unusual shape with an ivory swing handle, its silver sides reflecting the matching jug, slop-basin and sugar-vase. In addition there were spoons on a spoon-tray, a sweetmeat basket and a tea canister, which was in silver gilt with a flower finial and could be locked against servants’ thieving fingers. Hester had tasted tea a few times, for Martha had to cater for guests who could afford it, and she had been allowed to share what was left in the teapot when more hot water had been poured over the leaves. It was
a palatable drink and she liked it, although she thought it would taste even better if served from such a handsome octagonal teapot of silver.
Flanking the tea table, which was drawing attention, was a magnificent wine fountain with a high domed lid, the handles mounted on two rampant lions. On the opposite side was a presentation cup and cover in gold, of a size and splendour she thought fit for a Lord Mayor of London at the end of his year’s service to the city.
She wandered from display to display. Everything was here, from tureens to chocolate-pots, candlesticks to huge centre-pieces that would grace some long dining-table, and smaller items such as snuff-boxes, salts, casters and nutmeg graters. When she finally left the exhibition she felt dazed by so much beauty. If she had been a boy she would have followed that marvellous craft. There were women goldsmiths, the work of two having been on display, and it was her guess they were goldsmiths’ daughters, which would have enabled them to take a full apprenticeship within the family circle. Such opportunities did not come the way of ordinary girls like herself.
When she reached the tavern, she went upstairs to her bedroom and took the old silver thimble out of her sewing-box to view it in a new light. She was filled with pride that she owned something in the precious metal that had been displayed in such splendour at the Goldsmiths Hall.
On her sixteenth natal day Hester was allowed in the taproom to serve at the tables for the first time; Martha was vehemently against it, but Jack insisted, knowing the effect that a pretty face could have upon a gathering. ‘She’s old enough to know her way about and nobody would dare put a hand on her in my presence.’
To Martha’s anger it had happened out of his presence, although he chose to forget the trouble it caused. Once, in the private rooms, Hester had punched a travelling gentleman in the eye, and on another occasion had kicked an alderman. Both occasions had caused an uproar, with Jack acting like a madman and throwing the men out on the cobbles for having made unwarranted advances to his half-sister. Why could he not see that those laughing grey eyes, narrow waist and the tantalizing grace of a candle flame would always be a natural invitation to the opposite sex? Martha felt strongly that he should try to make her responsibility for Hester lighter instead of heavier, for it was still her particular cross to protect his precious relative from harm. She had never been one to shirk a duty once it was laid upon her and it was galling to her that her untroubled husband knew that only too well.
Hester enjoyed her new position as waiting-maid. She viewed it as promotion. It could not have come at a better time. She had had earlier stints at sharing the cooking in the kitchen, but for the past three months she had been baking without respite the pork pies for which the hostelry was famous. Martha had discovered she had a light hand with pastry and Hester had begun to fear she was never going to be allowed to do anything else again. In the taproom there was jollity, laughter and singing and during her past four years at the Heathcock she had received enough cheeky chaff from brewers delivering ale and from stable-lads and grooms to know how to stem good-temperedly any customer’s remarks that threatened to go too close to the bone.
Tips were a welcome, if infrequent, part of this new role. Sometimes only a halfpenny during a whole week, but there were the more generous among the better-off who now and again gave her a silver sixpence. It was the first time she had ever had money of her own in her pocket. Jack, who had thought of everything else concerning her well-being, had never considered how much a few pence now and again would have meant to her. Instead she had had to rely on Martha’s doling out for necessities with never a farthing over, which was hard when the shops and stalls were full of pretty things.
Her first shilling tip in the taproom came from a sergeant in the Grenadiers. She looked at it shining in her palm. ‘It’s a freshly minted one,’ she exclaimed in awe, for it was embossed with the head of the new King, George II, which she had not seen before.
The sergeant closed her fingers over the coin, not wanting too much attention brought to his generosity. By rights such shillings in his possession were currency to cement the recruitment, often by wily means, of young men into His Majesty’s army, and for once he had a few in hand. ‘Buy yersel’ some fripperies,’ he advised splendidly, munificent in his drunkenness, ‘an’ bring me another tankard of that black ale as quick as you did before.’
The next time she was out on an errand she bought herself a drawing tablet, some paints and other requirements to replace the worn-out sketching materials she had brought from home so long ago. It was a long time since she had done any sketching, except with a fingertip before dusting furniture or in steam on a windowpane, and she wondered if her skill had deserted her. But it came back as if no more than a day had elapsed and her first subject was a flight of geese winging across the London sky, observed from her bedchamber window.
In spite of having drawing materials to hand once more, often weeks and even months went by before she could use them again. Life at the tavern continued in its hectic routine, enlivened at times by brawls, organized pugilistic bouts in the main yard, and once a duel with rapiers when two drunken gentlemen fell out, fortunately both too unsteady on their feet for either to do the other any harm.
Two more natal days came and went for her. With Martha’s watchful eye on her, there was little chance of forming romantic liaisons, and in any case she had not met anybody who was of interest to her. Her only regret was that time to herself was so limited, but she had learned to snatch whatever was available and to take advantage of any lull, however short, usually with her drawing tablet on her knees. When she was out and about in the city there was much that caught her eye and was tucked away in her memory to be set down at the first opportunity.
Her artistic ability had always been a private matter to her, something not to share with others, although naturally her mother had known of it. Maybe the old disgrace of failing to read had stunted any wish to sketch her fellow human beings, or to let them into her own special sphere. Whatever the reasons she made sure that her drawing materials were kept out of sight in her room and only ever brought downstairs when she could be sure of being unobserved.
There was a corner of the kitchen yard where she could conceal herself and have plenty of warning should anyone approach. It was on some steps that led from a little-used rear door away from the kitchen entrance. If she locked it behind her nobody could come upon her unawares and the balustrade wall of the steps hid her from view. She welcomed the rare moments of solitude in the open air that this retreat afforded her and was blissfully happy as she sketched from memory the swans on the river or a ship in sail, or anything else that had a lovely line.
She was sketching the tavern cat, its face squashed in sleep, on a hot August afternoon when someone entered the yard by the kitchen gate, the only spot from which she could easily be seen. If it had not been left ajar, the screech of the hinges would have warned her of an approach. Instead she continued drawing, her bodice strings loosened against the heat of the day, her skirts up to the knees of her bare legs in a tumble of petticoat frills, and her head, free of the white cotton cap that was everyday wear, bent over the work in hand. The cat’s tabby fur was downy in the sun, light as spun gold and as difficult to capture in pencilled lines. She was totally absorbed.
What made her look up she never knew. Maybe the strange alchemy that can exist between a man and a woman set a spark flying in the quiet, sun-baked yard. A tall young man stood there, slender and wide-shouldered, his shadow foreshortened by the high sun that blazed into his fair hair, which he wore caught at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon tie. He was staring at her as though magnetized and for a few seconds she was held in the same spell, registering the planes and hollows of his keen, energetic face, the thin aristocratic nose, the well-shaped mouth and the handsome chin. His clothes were shabby and ill-cut, those that any poorly paid worker might wear, and his buckled shoes were worn. One part of her mind judged him to be about nineteen to her eighteen years while
her gaze continued to be held by alert eyes that were as river-blue as the Thames on a summer’s morning and with equal depths to drown in.
The drawing had been slipping from her lap unnoticed. Its sudden flutter as it skimmed down the steps to rest face downwards on the cobbles brought her back to her senses. She sprang up, remembering her disarray, and clutched her bodice together, her skirts swinging into place about her ankles. The fixed look in his eyes broke and suddenly he appeared to be as startled by the whole encounter as she. Her voice burst from her on a higher note than was normal.
‘Why are you here? What do you want? Most people go to the coach-yard entrance.’
‘I came by way of the alley, taking a short cut.’ He spoke in what she recognized as educated tones. ‘My master sent me to pick up a watch-chain from Master Needham which is in need of repair. I am expected. Should I find the other entrance?’
‘No,’ she insisted hastily, not wanting anyone else to take up his errand for him. ‘Wait here. I’ll let Jack know you’ve called.’ Turning, she hurried up the steps and unlocked the door to let herself in. He came to the foot of the flight and called after her: ‘One moment!’
‘Yes?’ She looked down over her shoulder at him. The serious set of his face, which she guessed was normal to him, had relaxed into a quick, leaping smile, showing teeth that were white and even.
‘I haven’t asked your name or told you mine,’ he said, leaning an arm on the stone balustrade.
‘I’m Hester Needham.’
‘Are you the landlord’s daughter?’
‘No, his half-sister. I came to live and work here six years ago. And you?’
For some reason his smile widened, illuminating an extraordinary kindliness in his features, making her feel that here was a good man in the true sense of the word, one without cruelty or baseness. ‘My name is John Bateman.’
The Silver Touch Page 2
