He lingered until November. Then mercifully, restoring her faith in prayer, he was spared the last terrible indignity of a fatal haemorrhage and died quietly in his sleep, his heart having given out finally under its constant strain. She was alone with him, seated at the bedside, his hand resting in hers, and she felt him go from her.
‘John!’ His name burst from her in a last cry of love.
The hour was two o’clock in the morning on the sixteenth day of November, 1760. He was fifty-two years old. At midday, after the doctor had called to sign the death certificate and the funeral arrangements had been made, Hester took John’s will from his desk and at her request Joss broke the seal and read it out to her. They were on their own, away from the family who had gathered in the parlour, Letticia having arrived with her husband and brothers as soon as the message had reached them. It was a short will, for John had made only one bequest.
‘To my beloved wife, Hester,’ Joss read out in his deep, steady voice, ‘I leave my entire estate, including the tools of my craft, it being my belief that she will come to use them in skills beyond anything I have been able to teach her.’
Hester raised a stunned face. It had not been a surprise to learn that the workshop, as well as all else, had been left to her, for John had told her and Joss in turn, knowing that their teamwork would continue as it had done during his illness before his needs as a patient had kept her from the work-bench. What she had not known was that she was to receive his treasured tools. She had assumed they would go to Joss, who was a qualified goldsmith, and no craftsman gave his tools to anyone but his equal. John had paid her the highest compliment possible in that special bequest and had added encouragement for the future beyond anything she could have imagined.
‘When was the will written?’ she asked hoarsely.
Joss looked at the date. ‘August, 1750.’
‘Ten years ago!’ Her thoughts raced back to a time even earlier when Joss had praised a snuff-box she had made, not knowing it was her work, and she had seen John’s expression change. Then, and often afterwards, she had supposed his male ego had been put out by her ability. Instead, that shift of expression had simply portended a new awareness of her as a fully fledged silversmith. He had probably made up his mind then that the workshop and the tools should become hers if he happened to be the one to die first. ‘Joss, I had always thought your father would leave his tools to you.’
He came across to rest his hands on either arm of the chair in which she sat. ‘I’m not disappointed. You deserve the tools, Mother. I don’t think you’ve ever realized your own talent.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, looking down as she struggled with the wave of emotion passing through her.
He touched her on the shoulder to help her avoid giving way. ‘Are you ready to go to the lawyers?’
She straightened her back and nodded firmly. ‘The sooner the will is proved the better. I have been thinking we can’t risk delays or the loss of customers because everything depends on our maintaining credit and orders. It’s what your father would have wanted us to do.’
From the parlour window Letticia watched them drive away together in the wagonette. She was red-eyed with grief. ‘How can Mother be so practical at such a time?’
‘Be thankful for it,’ Alice said crisply. ‘It’s not long since that Joss and I feared she would lose her mind completely when this day came.’
Many people attended the funeral at St Luke’s Church, for John had been well liked by friends and neighbours as well as those in the goldsmithing trade. It was a cold and blustery day when he was laid to rest in the churchyard. Hester had made the silver plaque on the coffin and Joss had inscribed it. As the wind billowed her cloak and drove a misty rain into her face, she knew her own heart would lie forever beneath that plaque.
Twelve
Peter and William came home for Christmas. It was a concession by Richard in view of his mother-in-law’s recent bereavement because, unless Christmas day fell on a Sunday, it was the same as any other day in a working week with shops open and workshops busy. Hester, apart from cooking a dinner of roast goose with mince pies and a plum pudding set aflame with lighted brandy, made it a day of rest, closing the workshop. She and Joss both needed a respite, for since John’s funeral they had worked all hours to catch up with delayed orders and other matters that his illness had meant putting to one side. She was not prepared for the shock that Peter gave her when they happened to be alone together for a few minutes.
‘Father’s death has changed everything,’ he said firmly. ‘As soon as my apprenticeship is finished I shall join you and Joss in the workshop.’
‘No!’ She was aghast. ‘That’s not for you. I won’t have you tied to this place through some misguided sense of responsibility. Joss and I are managing well and are more or less shipshape now, all orders under control again. You have to make your own way in the world.’ She caught hold of the front of his coat in her agitation. ‘I’m relying on you to be the greatest silversmith of all.’
‘So you are using the new term to describe those of us who prefer to specialize in silver, are you, Mother?’ His eyes smiled at her. ‘You always were up to the minute. That’s why I want to throw in my lot with you. Why should I work for another master when I could work for you?’
‘But I’m not a Freeman of our craft’s Company any more than your father was and I never can be. That would always be a disadvantage to you as it is to Joss. You would be classed as an outworker with us. Your achievements would never be given the acclaim due to them. Take warning from Joss’s position. He has his own registered punchmark that he can never use since the workshop is mine.’
‘That doesn’t mean it has to be the same for me. I’ve always had more ambition than Joss. I can go ahead from the Bateman workshop as well as from any other.’
‘Elizabeth would object.’ It was a last endeavour to persuade him.
‘No, she wouldn’t. She thinks my chances would be good from here. Too many masters keep their most promising craftsmen under a dominating thumb for years on end.’
In spite of her protest his line of argument had sent new possibilities tumbling into her thoughts. She pressed her fingertips to her temples as if to sort out the confusion, a light dawning in her face. Peter was right. Why not? What better start for the fame of the Bateman name than John’s own premises? Changes would have to be made. Money would be needed to expand. Suddenly a whole new challenge was presenting itself. She would have to think everything out very carefully, but not today. This was a family day and must be devoted to the present and not to the future. She linked a hand in Peter’s arm.
‘We’ll talk of this matter another time. Let’s rejoin the others.’
That night she could not sleep for the activity of her brain. She rose from her bed and paced the floor until the first step to be taken became clear to her. Then she went downstairs to make camomile tea and Ann, hearing the stairs creak, followed down after her.
‘Is anything wrong, Mother?’ With her hair loose and hanging in its soft waves, she had thrown off the look of being ten years older than her age which her plain dressing and severe coiffure induced by day.
‘Nothing at all. I couldn’t sleep.’ It was always a comfort to her to have Ann’s presence.
Ann took the cups and saucers from a cupboard. There had been many times in the cosy warmth of the kitchen by night, and over countless nocturnal pots of tea, when she could have shared a confidence with her mother and poured out some of the old pain that had withered her up inside. Many times she had wanted to, feeling there would be healing in it for her, but Matthew’s name had always jammed in her throat, impossible to mention, and now she did not even try. She continued to love the family from within a shell of her own making. Her grief for her father was immense but nobody had seen her cry. She had become a listener to others, sympathetic and understanding through the lesson of her own experience. It was natural that, when the tea was poured, Hester, full of the
plan she had made, should tell Ann of it where she would have told no one else.
Ann considered carefully and nodded approval. ‘You must wear your best clothes for the occasion,’ she advised wisely. ‘The coppery silk that sets off your hair would do well without being too noticeable. It would mean no disrespect to Father, who was against your wearing mourning in any case. The last thing you want is to appear as a weak widow playing for sympathy in your black weeds.’
‘I don’t think James has ever thought me weak,’ Hester commented drily.
‘That’s beside the point. You must look what you are — a determined woman ready to do business at a man’s level and make a success of it.’
‘I’ll do everything you say.’
In the morning, Hester took a long look at her reflection for the first time in months. Her skin was still good, the lines faint, and she had kept her figure, her narrow waist still that of a girl’s. Admittedly there were some threads of grey in her hair, but it had retained its strong colour and a tincture of marigolds added to the rinse when she washed it would bring back its highlights. On no account must she look worn down and weary, but there was no need for pretence either. Confidence was high in her.
She drove the wagonette herself into the city when the day came. It was a crisp morning with frost on the road and frozen puddles, but her cinnamon cloak was warmly lined, her coppery silk gown long-sleeved and she wore a wide-brimmed green hat that tied under her chin with ribbons to match.
In Lombard Street she drew up outside the building from which James conducted his business affairs. Inside there were a large number of clerks seated at high desks with their pens scratching. She was shown into James’s office after a short wait. It was a high-ceilinged room, comfortably furnished with a number of fine oil paintings on the walls, mostly seascapes. James came forward to greet her and her heart warmed anew towards him for what he had done for her and John at their last meeting.
‘My dear Hester. This is a most welcome surprise. What brings you to London?’
‘Firstly, are you sure I’m not interrupting your appointments? Perhaps I should have made one?’
‘Not at all. Today is remarkably free, as it happens. I hope you will stay and dine with me. Let me take your cape and hat. Come through into the adjoining room. It is there that I entertain my most distinguished clients.’
Going through the double doors he had opened for her she could see why. The walls were panelled with crimson silk, the couches, sofas and chairs upholstered in rich brocade. In a marble fireplace coals glowed brightly and she went across to warm her hands. There were crystal decanters on a side table and as he exchanged news with her, he poured madeira into two long-stemmed glasses. Bringing them across to where she stood, he handed one to her and raised his own in salute.
‘Your good health, ma’am.’
‘And yours, sir.’
They drank to each other, smiling. Then he invited her to sit down and took the seat beside her on the sofa. ‘Now tell me to what I owe this pleasure.’
‘I’m here on business.’
‘I thought as much. You would have called at my house otherwise. What is it you require?’
He was feasting his gaze on her. Last time she had been thin and taut as an archer’s bow. Grief had taken its toll and she had not yet regained much weight, but her vitality had returned and there was a purposefulness about her that boded well for her future. As for himself, her beauty held its same powerful spell over him as when it had been first cast in the herb garden. Again, as had happened many times before, he was dangerously stirred by her nearness. The thought uppermost in his mind was that now she was a free woman without marital ties to another man. Since he and Mary were virtually going their own ways, she residing permanently at their country house and he for months on his own in London, he was equally free in one respect.
‘I’m going to register my own “touch” at the Assay Office,’ she disclosed, ‘which is the legal requirement if I am to set up on my own. It’s time I released my own designs instead of being hidebound by other people’s in the outwork, which so often follows a mediocre pattern.’
‘What lies behind all this?’ he questioned perceptively, able to see she was in the grip of something more than self-ambition.
She leaned towards him eagerly. ‘I intend to make the name of Bateman known.’ Her voice rang with determination. ‘I used to think that I had to rely on my sons to do it, but now I believe I should do it in my own right and that means more to me than I could ever explain.’
So that was it. She wanted to pay honour to the man she had loved. His hand clenched on the stem of his glass in an involuntary spasm of jealousy, acute and painful. How odd that he should be jealous now when he had never been jealous of John Bateman in his lifetime. Against his will he felt angry with her.
‘How would you go about achieving your ambition?’
‘I should have to step carefully at first, proving that my standard is as high as anything that came out of the workshop when John was in charge.’ She had it all worked out. ‘Most of all I need a loan to see me through the start of producing silver bearing my punchmark.’
‘I see.’ He took her empty glass from her since she had declined a refill and put it aside with his own.
In her enthusiasm she failed to detect the slight coolness in his attitude. ‘There is nobody else to whom I can turn, James. You know my background. You’ve seen my work. Say you will advance the money I must have if I’m to expand my business in this way.’
‘And if you’re successful in your venture,’ he asked uncompromisingly, ‘will you bury yourself away in the workshop and never emerge again? When should I see you?’
She uttered a little laugh. ‘Often, if you returned to Bunhill Row.’
‘Maybe I will one day. But seeing you today makes me want to take up again from that day in the copse. What I said to you then still holds good today. My feelings haven’t changed.’
She became intensely conscious of how he was looking at her and the fierce desire in his eyes touched a long-dormant chord in her. She had always found him attractive, liked his striking looks, the laughter in him, and admired his fine build as she had admired John’s in times past. Added to that was the new depth of feeling that had come with his previous kindness towards her. It was not love as she understood it and never could be, but it was a bond of deep affection enriched and enhanced by the passage of time and all that had taken place in sorrow and joy. Nevertheless, she did not intend to submit to the pressure he was putting on her. She was her own woman now, subject to no man, and she would fight to retain that status.
‘Are you bargaining with me?’ she demanded steadily, facing him out.
For several timeless moments he held her gaze and then slowly shook his head and sighed regretfully. ‘No, my dear, I’ll not do that, however great the temptation. I’ll grant what you ask. You shall have your loan.’
‘Oh, James!’ Her voice broke on the rush of gratitude that combined with her fondness for him to illumine her whole face. He could no longer hold back from her and scooped her to him, arching her spine as he lovingly devoured her parted lips in the most ardent of kisses. She made no protest, her arms going about his neck, her own response a natural expression of happiness in this hour and what he had promised her. What she had not anticipated was that her body should threaten to betray her. John’s illness had long deprived her strong, healthy body of its needs and she had believed her desire for physical love lost with his as his health had declined. Now James’s tender, travelling caresses were reawakening her flesh, but he was not John and that was his misfortune. Gently but forcibly she drew back from him and extricated herself from his embrace before sheer passion got the better of them, something that had no place in her life any more.
Disappointment weighed down his face. For a few intoxicating minutes he had believed he was about to possess her at last. He could guess what lay behind her withdrawal and jealousy gripped him again.
He would have given everything he owned to have been loved half as much by her as John Bateman had been in his lifetime and even now when only a memory. His hands continued to fondle her arms as he held her facing him.
‘You know I’ll love you to my dying day.’
Her eyes softened to a mist. ‘I know.’
They kissed again fondly, without their previous fervour. If he wished he had never made a second marriage and waited instead for her, he did not say so and she thought it all for the best.
When he ordered dinner it was brought in from a neighbouring tavern to be set out on damask by the waiter supervising the minions in their white aprons, who carried the covered dishes. After the wine was poured, she and James were left on their own and they talked over many topics as they ate, her plans in particular.
‘Dine with me again whenever you are in town,’ he invited, when helping her on with her cape when she was ready to leave.
‘That would be most pleasurable, dear James.’
On the sixteenth day of April she drove again into the city. This time she went to the Assay Office where her name was registered in the list of those craftsmen in precious metals who were not Freemen of the Company and she was shown where to set down her entry. She took the pen firmly, having practised daily over the past week for this moment. For a second or two there was the threat of nausea that always accompanied the holding of a pen under stress. Her hand shook slightly but the strokes she made were firm if not perfect. H.B. There! It was done!
If all the church bells of London had been pealing when she emerged into the street, she would not have been surprised. Anything could have happened that day. After all, it felt as if her feet were not touching the ground.
The Silver Touch Page 28
