The Silver Touch

by Rosalind Laker

  In the cool, flagged passageway within, she drew a deep breath to recover herself, pulling the strings of her bodice tightly together and tying a bow. John Bateman. It had a ring to it like that of a fine wineglass and she was sure he had given his name more for her benefit than for Jack’s. Her heart was pounding away as if her whole world had been turned upside down. Perhaps it had. Nobody had ever had this effect upon her before, although maybe the circumstances of their meeting had something to do with it, for she was not used to being caught at a disadvantage.

  As he had come for a watch-chain, it was her guess that he was an apprentice goldsmith. Apprentices of every trade were always in the Heathcock, usually in the rougher taproom frequented by travelling coachmen, servants and similar folk, and if they made a drunken nuisance of themselves they were soon thrown out by Jack. Whipping her white cap from her pocket and popping it on, Hester did not think that John would ever make a public exhibition of himself. He had a quiet air about him.

  Smoothing down her apron and satisfied that her appearance was orderly again, she went in search of Jack and failed to find him anywhere. ‘Where is he?’ she asked Martha, who was doing accounts in the office, seated at the high desk.

  ‘Out,’ Martha replied abruptly, her pen still scratching across the open page of the ledger in front of her. She never wasted words in conversation with Hester.

  ‘A messenger has come for his broken watch-chain.’

  ‘I’ve no idea where it is although I heard the arrangement being made.’ Martha dipped her pen into the ink again. ‘In any case I’m too busy to look for it now. Inform the fellow you’ll deliver it to Master Harwood’s workshop tomorrow.’ She failed to see the flash of delight that passed across Hester’s face.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Going downstairs again Hester almost danced down the flight. She had been handed the chance to see John Bateman again, to further the unusual encounter, and she would make sure that she delivered the watch-chain to him personally. As for Master Harwood, whom she had waited on many times, she had always thought he would be a hard master to serve.

  Emerging into the sunshine again, she halted abruptly with a sense of deep shock. John Bateman was holding her drawing of the cat and studying it intently. ‘That belongs to me!’ She made an involuntary rush down the steps as if she would have snatched it from him.

  He looked up from the drawing, his expression intrigued, his eyes narrowed. ‘You’re extremely talented. This is a fine drawing. I assume you’re self-taught?’

  She was trembling in the aftermath of shock, but there washed over her an intense joy that he liked what she had done. It was like a benediction, his approval a balm, sweeping away the rejection and scorn she had always expected others to pour upon her efforts. Her mother had always praised them, but that had been different altogether, part of the security of home, an extension of herself.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She felt unusually vulnerable. ‘I have always liked to sketch but I have little time these days.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ He handed the drawing back to her. ‘Do you have the watch-chain?’

  ‘No. Jack is out and his wife doesn’t know where it is. I’m to deliver it to you tomorrow at Master Harwood’s workshop.’ She noted that he smiled again upon hearing her words as if inwardly he was as pleased as she was that they were to have another meeting, and shortly, too.

  ‘Do you know where the workshop is?’ he enquired. ‘No? It’s easy to find.’ He gave her clear and precise directions. It was in Cripplegate, not far from St Giles’s Church. Many goldsmiths had workshops there, it being common practice for those of one craft to set up in close proximity.

  ‘Are you going to do the repair?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Then I’ll ask for you.’

  He nodded, those river-blue eyes dwelling on her.

  ‘Please do that, Miss Needham. Now I’ll bid good day to you. I have to get back to work.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Bateman.’

  She watched him stride across the cobbles to reach the gate. There he paused to look back at her with a wave. The hinges screeched as the gate swung closed after him. She stood lost in her own happy thoughts until Martha, shouting from an upper window, caused her to go scuttling back indoors.

  Her one fear that evening was that Master Harwood would come into the tavern and then Jack would hand over the watch-chain to him directly, curtailing all chances of her expedition the following day. Fortunately Master Harwood did not appear and during the clearing up in the taproom at the evening’s end, Hester seized an opening to tell Jack about John Bateman’s call.

  ‘I know the lad,’ Jack said, turning chairs upside down on the tables ready for the sweeping out of the old spittle-soiled sawdust and the spreading of the new. ‘John Bateman is Harwood’s senior apprentice. He comes of good Staffordshire stock but has no money. It’s the familiar story of gentlefolk impoverished by the gambling of previous generations. Both his parents died young and he was reared by his grandfather who paid for his education at Westminster School and settled him in his present apprenticeship, which was the limit of what the old fellow could do, being almost in penury himself.’

  She was surprised to have learned so much in a short time, even though Jack was typical of most landlords in being affable and talkative with a fount of information gathered about people and events far beyond the range of their own taproom bars. ‘Did Master Harwood tell you all this?’ It struck her as odd that a master craftsman, even in his cups, should discuss a humble apprentice during a social hour.

  ‘He did. About six or seven months ago when his daughter became betrothed to young Bateman.’

  ‘Betrothed!’ She was wiping beer rings from the oaken surface of the bar and swung round to look towards him, her face dismayed. Not only had she waited on Caroline Harwood during supper parties and knew her to be good-looking in a cool, elegant way, but by repute Master Harwood’s daughter was educated and well read, having been tutored from the age of seven until her seventeenth natal day as if she were a boy. Moreover, it was said that she played two or three musical instruments with remarkable talent. Wildly in her racing thoughts, Hester remembered pitying Caroline for not having been given the chance to serve a goldsmith apprenticeship and for being subjected to book-learning instead. Now it was she herself who was in need of pity, having no cultural attributes to compete with this paragon for John Bateman’s attentions.

  Jack did not notice her state of distraction, being occupied with his task. ‘The betrothal is not official yet. It can’t be until the lad has served out what time remains of his indentures and gains the Freedom of the Goldsmiths Company. In the meantime the young couple have an understanding. You’d better take the watch-chain to the Harwood workshop tomorrow morning before we get busy.’

  She plucked absently at the wash-cloth she held, her words coming bitterly. ‘I wonder that Master Harwood should consider a man without means suitable as a husband for his daughter.’

  Sensitivity was not a quality of Jack’s blunt nature and he continued to be oblivious to her tension as he clattered another chair. ‘Ah, it’s skill that is young Bateman’s fortune. The lad is a born goldsmith and will be the mainstay of the Harwood workshop in time to come. What better for a master craftsman without sons that he should train a future son-in-law into his own ways. It’s a unique chance to ensure the business remains sound, even when he himself is gone.’ Finally he realized how long Hester had been standing by the bar and looked across with a frown. ‘Ain’t you finished that cleaning yet?’

  Hester, galvanized into action, rubbed away at the bar in a furious burst of energy as a silent outlet for her pent-up feelings. Later, as she prepared for bed, her optimism returned and she shook off determinedly the dismay that Jack’s information had caused her. What did her lack of education really matter? She could always keep her secret that she knew nothing of books or writing by talking of other things to hold John’s interest. Neither was i
t important that she could not play the lute or a harpsichord, for she had a sweet singing voice and was never out of tune. As for John’s prospects of a future governed by a father-in-law, she did not think that any man of initiative would take kindly to that. Surely John with his skills would be more than ready to make his own way and harvest his own successes once the Freedom was his, which was what she would have done in his place.

  Finally, and most important of all, she refused to believe he had ever looked at Caroline Harwood as he had looked at her that day, staring as if she were Venus rising from the sea. Few women could have seen a man so transfixed.

  Two

  Ever since he had come to the workshop that morning John had been watching for Hester. Common sense told him she would not appear at too early an hour, but then common sense seemed to have abandoned him since that moment yesterday when he had stepped into the yard at the Heathcock Inn and seen her sketching on the steps, a total innocent in her disarray, her long hair holding all the hues of a late sunset against the warm red bricks behind her.

  It was an image impossible to put out of his mind, the lowered scoop of neckline revealing the shadowed cleavage and the length of beautiful leg amid white frills with ankles he could have encircled with finger and thumb. Then, when she had looked up, the impact of startled eyes, caught breath and parted lips had touched some chord in him that seemed to arouse an instant rapport in her. Their conversation had paled before that other language of mind and body. He was as impatient as a madman to see her again.

  His shirt, which had been clean that morning, was soiled already due to the grimy conditions of a goldsmith’s workshop where smelting, alloying and manufacture took place. The floor was swept meticulously every night, and the dust and dirt sieved afterwards to catch any lemel, the old French word given to the grains of precious metal that flew from the impact of a tool, or escaped the leather aprons of the craftsmen which were permanently attached to the work-benches and tied with tapes behind their waists. The dirt was then bagged and sold at the door to those who still thought it worthwhile to purchase the sweepings from a goldsmith’s floor.

  Wherever possible the work-benches with their semi-circular cut-outs, which gave a convenient edge to work against, were placed under windows to catch the maximum amount of light; hanging candle-lamps gave extra illumination when needed. John’s work-place was at an end cut-out in a bench occupying a favourable position and his own tools were conveniently to hand, many of them on wall-racks. Communal apparatus, such as extra stakes and heads — the names given to cast-iron shapes over which the precious metals were beaten into the required forms — crucibles for melting, hammers and vices and many other tools, were racked or shelved and formed a strangely proud mural that ran the length of the long workshop on either side.

  On the floor, as well as on the benches, were large elm tree stumps into which the stakes and heads were set for stability while a piece was worked on; they also had another use, the old wood having become worn through time, often over two or three or more generations of goldsmiths, into marvellously smooth indentations suitable for beating workpieces into shape. A good stump was as much an heirloom to be passed on to a goldsmith’s son as a set of tools. At the darkest end of the workshop were the charcoal hearths, their strategic position making it easier to see when an article was approaching red heat in soldering or annealing.

  The working area occupied the whole of the ground floor with the Harwood living-quarters above. In all, Master Harwood employed thirty journeymen and three apprentices, in addition to half a dozen women engaged in filing, polishing and similar routine tasks. It was to be expected that apprenticeship in such a thriving workshop should be eagerly sought after and John had been aware of his good fortune from the first day.

  He was engaged that morning on an interesting workpiece which he had begun three days ago. It was a magnificent tankard formed of thin sheets of silver soldered together while the mouldings of the spreading foot were most finely beaten. With a scroll handle and a domed cover, operated by a corkscrew thumbpiece, it would never hold ale for a poor man’s lips. Although usually two and a half days were allotted for the making of a tankard, this was an elaborate one that had involved many extra hours.

  As John worked, he tried to rationalize his intense desire to see Hester again and bring it to a sensible level. He blamed it on the monastic rule that governed all apprenticeships, together with a ban on swearing, drunkenness, gambling and even marriage. Being young, strong, healthy and virile, was it any wonder that such a lovely sight as Hester had presented should have stirred him as it did? That was all there was to it.

  If only there could have been a full relationship between himself and Caroline he would have been less susceptible to another girl’s appeal, for he was not by nature easy in his loyalties or commitments. As it was, he could number the kisses and embraces from Caroline on the fingers of one hand. She was no less eager than he, but since she had made it known to her father that they were in love, new restrictions on her movements had curtailed all chance meetings on the premises, which had been such a pleasure to them both. Instead, he was now invited to the upper regions of the Harwood establishment, previously a barred area, for dinner at the fashionable hour of two o’clock twice a month, on alternate Sundays, at which her parents always presided. Before the first invitation had been issued, Master Harwood had called him into the office.

  ‘I understand from Caroline that you and she have developed a sincere affection for each other.’

  ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘Well, no more can be said on the matter until you have been admitted into the Goldsmiths Company at the end of your apprenticeship. Then you may make known to me your honourable intentions towards my daughter. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I look forward to that day.’

  That had been the end of the interview. It had told him clearly that he was approved; no barriers would stand in his way.

  After rising from the Sunday dinner table, he and Caroline would talk together in a corner of the room, able to forget to a degree that they were being observed, for they had much in common, her interests as wide as his. If they became too absorbed, her mother would interrupt by asking Caroline to play the harpsichord, particularly if there was other company present. In fine weather, there was occasionally a sedate walk, he and Caroline proceeding in front of her parents, which meant there could be no lingering behind their backs. He thought sometimes it would have been more agreeable for Caroline and him if she had kept their love a secret for a while longer, but she had always been close to her parents and could not hold back the joy of telling them.

  When the Sunday afternoons were over, he always returned to the dank basement room below the workshop that he shared with the two other apprentices, Tom Nicholson and Robin Pomfret. It was here they slept on straw-filled wall-beds and ate the meagre victuals doled out to them three times a day from the household kitchen. He did not resent the conditions, because it was the lot common to most apprentices, and he and his companions were better off than those who actually had to sleep under their work-benches. Since they received little pay, cash was always a problem. Luckily there was plenty to do and see in London that was without charge. Unlike either Tom or Robin, who were a noisy, boisterous pair, he read a great deal. Whenever the small allowance came from his grandfather, he would put a few pence aside from that needed for shoe repairs and other necessities, and then comb the market stalls for any volumes of interest that could be picked up cheaply, plus some candles to read them by.

  In the activity of the workshop, he did not hear Robin’s approach or know he was there until tapped on the shoulder. ‘There’s a young woman to see you, John. Says she has a watch-chain that can’t be handed over to anyone else.’

  He nodded, straightening up from his work, and untied his leather apron to hook it forward against the workbench with slow deliberation to subdue the sudden churn of excitement in him. It would not be as yester
day. That had been a moment out of time. Today everything would be commonplace. He must prepare himself for that.

  In the entrance hall Hester waited. At the far end, by an office door, a massive staircase led to the rooms of the Harwood residence above. She was impressed by the size of the establishment and its obvious prosperity. Brasswork had shone on the porticoed door and here inside there was a waxed sheen to the dark floorboards. From this place went an outflowing of handsome gold and silver items, all bearing the Harwood hallmark.

  A gilt-framed looking-glass, with candle-sconces that would reflect the light at evening-time, was hanging on the wall near the staircase. By taking a few steps to the right, she was able to check her appearance in it. She was wearing a lace-trimmed cap with floating ribbons of primrose-yellow; her hair was dressed back smoothly in its customary style of glossy, well-brushed swathes high across the back of her head. Her dress was grey-striped calico and her apron, part of the fashion scene even among high-born ladies who had them made of silk and lace, had a pleated edge to it. She was looking her best and she waited neatly, the watch-chain wrapped in a piece of white linen in her hand.

  A door opened and John came into the hall. A flat, guarded look across his face dissolved immediately at the sight of her. Any doubts she might have harboured about how it would be when they met again were completely banished. There was nothing to worry about. It was as she had believed in her heart it would be. He came hurrying towards her.

  ‘Miss Needham! You found this address without too much difficulty, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, it was easy.’ She glanced about her admiringly. ‘And what a grand place it is. You are fortunate to be working here.’

  ‘I am. Unlike some establishments this one is large enough to give me an extensive training in every branch of goldsmithing.’

  Her glance flicked over his grimy attire. ‘What work do you like doing best?’