‘I am,’ she replied. It was not strictly true. Pining for William had played havoc with her whole constitution. ‘How are you progressing with your apprenticeship?’
He was doing well and chose to boast a little to her, not only of his standard of work but of his worldly knowledge of London. Not for him the low taverns and stews patronized by the average apprentice. He chose to save his wages for one glass of wine or a light meal in elegant surroundings and to visit the art galleries, the museums and the historical sites. She was impressed.
‘How do you spend your time?’ he asked as an opening for what he intended to say next. It amused him that he was the only one to suspect that it was she whom William met on Saturday nights, for he had followed his brother once to a hiring stable and seen him ride off on a nag. Further observations had all added up.
‘I have a lot of writing to do for my uncle in connection with his religious work,’ she replied, thinking how dull it sounded.
‘Then it must be a great relief to have my brother’s good company to look forward to at the end of the week.’
She gasped and looked around frantically, but he had spoken quietly and none had overheard. ‘How long have you known?’
‘For months. Don’t worry. I wish you both well. You have nothing to fear from me.’
She nodded her gratitude, moving away from him to reach her aunt’s side. Sorrow, joy and fright had combined in a single afternoon and she felt exhausted by it all.
Yet there was a further ordeal to come. As she arrived home with her guardians she was told to go to the study. Her aunt led the way and her uncle followed, closing the door after them.
‘Now, Sarah,’ Mrs Thorne said icily, pulling off her black gloves by the fingers, ‘you will read aloud to us the communication that William Bateman passed to you this afternoon. If you refuse,’ she added, seeing how the alarmed girl clutched her purse defensively to her, ‘we shall take it from you, read it for ourselves and double your punishment for allowing such a liberty from that notorious young rakehell.’
With her mind racing, Sarah took the folded letter from her purse as if obeying them. Immediately, with a sudden movement of her shaking hands, she ripped the letter in half and was about to tear it into smaller pieces when her aunt gave a screech and seized the papers from her. Sarah rushed forward to grab her arm and grapple with her.
‘No, you don’t!’ Mr Thorne roared, yanking her away from behind and holding her fast. The sudden jerk sent her purse, already opened, flying from her hand and the key to the garden gate clattered on to the floor.
Mr Thorne pushed Sarah down into a chair, picked up the key, then taking the torn letter from his wife he carefully pieced the papers together. He proceeded to read it aloud:
‘“My darling Sarah”’ he began in a deepening note of disbelief. ‘“I have missed you with my heart and body more than words can say ...”’
Sarah covered her face with her hands, curling up in the chair as if she were being knifed. William’s loving terms were poisoned by the salacious undertone that crept into her uncle’s voice. The letter made it clear to both her guardians that the meeting planned for Saturday evening followed a pattern of many others shared previously. When her uncle came to the end of the letter he and his wife turned their heads simultaneously to stare dumbfoundedly at their niece. Her sins went far beyond anything they had expected to find when they had begun their investigation and they had no doubt the key opened an entrance to the place of assignation. They were momentarily at a loss to know how to destroy the evil in their midst.
When they had banished her to her room they sat down for a counsel of war. There was no fear of Sarah getting out again, for Mr Thorne had nailed up the shutters of her bedchamber and locked her in. He was all for making a full complaint to William’s master, but his wife slapped her pigmented hand down on the table to emphasize the folly of such a move.
‘Scandal must be avoided at all costs. Think of your position as a Dissenter and the need to hold up our heads against constant opposition from the old Church. Not a word of this must leak out to harm our cause and pour ridicule on us. Sarah shall write to her seducer a letter saying that it is all over between them. The tone of his showed that he was trying to win her back to him after a lovers’ tiff and he will think he has failed.’
‘What if he talks?’
‘Nonsense!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not going to risk his future by blabbing when the matter is closed.’
They had to beat her and half starve her before she finally wrote at Mrs Thorne’s dictation. She hoped that William would grasp that she was writing it under pressure and know that somehow she would see him again. After her aunt had sealed the letter and taken it away, she crawled into a corner of her bedchamber and sat huddled there with her forehead on her drawn-up knees, not knowing or caring whether it was night or day.
Thirteen
Producing articles bearing her own punchmark had brought the assay officers down on Hester at unexpected moments. It was their duty to weigh, test and otherwise check that articles were being produced up to the high standard demanded by the Assay Office. Since she was honest in all her dealings, their deliberately unannounced visits did not bother her apart from some interruption of work. She was on the circuit of two assay officers, one as pleasant as the other was sour.
Mr Cockerill was the name of the man she and everyone else liked, a childless widower in his early fifties whose strong jaw showed that he could be ruthless with those who abused the splendour of the gold and silver that they handled. He had grim tales of those who substituted baser metals in the making and the cheats who put their punchmark over those of other craftsmen whose products were pure and better than their own.
‘A most enjoyable visit, Mrs Bateman,’ he always said before he left. Then he would thank Ann for the delicious tea she had served him. His fellow assay officer never received tea and there was always a sigh of relief when he went. Hester, always busy in the workshop, was never present when Mr Cockerill was poured his refreshing cup from the full silver tea service that she had been able to afford to make for herself at last. It took quite a time before she happened to discover that Ann always used the best porcelain for him as well. Gradually it became noticeable to her that after his visits Ann’s tight-mouthed countenance took on a gentler look. But as time went on and they never met away from the teacups, Hester came to the conclusion that there was nothing more than friendship between them.
The facilities of the workshop purchased around the time of Peter’s marriage were ideal for the amount of commissions being received. Trade orders had also increased as Hester’s skills became generally accepted. Silver traders had begun supplying sheet silver as well as ingots, and these speeded up many spheres of work by doing away with hours of preparation involving hammering, beating and tapping to a smoothness before marking out could begin.
An apprentice had joined the workshop a while ago, a willing lad addressed as Linney, and there was every indication that he would stay on with the Bateman workshop when qualified. ‘There must be something magnetic about this place,’ Hester remarked with a smile.
Linney’s artistic talents were put to another use when he painted a new trade sign that Peter had made for her. It was to be suspended over the entrance of Number 108 to replace John Bateman’s old sign, which had stood by the side gate of Number 107 until Hester had moved it to her expanded premises. It had become outdated long ago with regard to the work she was now taking in.
‘The new sign is ready, Mrs Bateman,’ Linney informed her one morning. Outside Peter was hammering in the last nails that would keep it securely in place. He descended the ladder as she went out to look up at the sign, her hands on her hips, the wind billowing her apron and flapping the ties of her cap.
‘It’s splendid,’ she declared with a catch in her voice, for all along she had been reluctant to replace John’s sign. But the day had had to come. This new sign showed one of her elegant coffee-pots, sk
ilfully painted highlights giving it the full look of silver, and above it lettering she knew to be Hester Bateman, Silversmith. In choosing to announce herself as a specialist in silver-work she was following the new trend and since her mind was always darting ahead as far as business was concerned, she was prepared to fly in the face of traditionalists now and at any other time. Sometimes she wondered if this trait in her of being willing to take a chance was the same characteristic as had multiplied itself in William before life had finally tamed him.
A clop of hooves on the road took her gaze from the new sign and she saw that Mr Cockerill had come on one of his visits. They greeted each other and when he had dismounted and tied up his horse, they went into Number 108 together.
‘I shall not be coming on an inspection visit after today, Mrs Bateman,’ he said in the hallway. ‘I have been given a new circuit in York, the city of my birth to which I have always wanted to return. I should like to talk to you about it, if I may.’
‘By all means.’ She took him into Peter’s office which had been set up there. Peter had taken over the running of the business from Joss to leave him more time for his family, an arrangement that suited both brothers well. ‘We are going to miss you, Mr Cockerill.’
He sat forward on the edge of his chair. ‘Not altogether, I hope, ma’am. I am requesting your permission to ask for the hand of your daughter, Ann, in marriage. I know there is a wide gap between her age and mine, but we share literary and other interests and I have reason to believe she reciprocates my sincere affection for her.’
Hester responded with pleasure. It would be odd to have a son-in-law almost her own age, but he had shown himself to be a kindly man and she was thankful that love had come into her daughter’s life. ‘You have my permission. Ann is in the house now.’
They returned together shortly afterwards, Ann looking happier than Hester could remember. This time everyone stopped work to go into the house and drink a celebratory cup of tea in the parlour with the newly betrothed couple. ‘Strange,’ thought Hester, ‘this parlour has been the sole realm of their courtship.’
The wedding took place a month later. It was a quiet affair as both Dick Cockerill and Ann wished it to be, only her family and a few of his friends present. Ann wore iris blue, the colour that suited her best, and when the time came for her to leave she and Hester embraced, each momentarily at a loss for words. Since John’s death they had drawn still closer together and would miss each other keenly, the distance to York being too far for frequent visits.
‘All happiness to you, dearest Ann,’ Hester said as they drew apart.
‘Thank you, Mother.’ With a final wave to all gathered on the steps of Number 107, Ann preceded her husband into the carriage and they drove away.
When the day was over and everyone had departed, Hester felt the emptiness of the house for the first time. There were servants in the kitchen, but none of her own any more under her roof. She braced her shoulders, aware it was a day that every parent had to face and she was more fortunate than most in having two of her sons in nearby houses, quite apart from three dear grandchildren who had inherited Joss’s good nature. Suddenly tired after the events of the day, she went to bed.
The Bateman family had another cause for celebration when the hated sixpenny tax was removed from silver. It would stimulate trade and do much to counteract the increasing popularity of Sheffield Plate. Hester gave a party and several friends in the goldsmithing trade were included.
When it was over Hester settled to routine again. Peter began to come more often to the house in the evenings as if the loneliness of his own home had begun to be oppressive. Previously he had wanted solitude, finding healing in being alone with his memories. Hester usually sat sketching out new designs in the candlelight, for it was a relaxation for her and never a chore, while he lounged back smoking his long-stemmed pipe and they talked when each had something to say.
Peter was spending a Saturday evening with her when she completed a new design that gave her a rare satisfaction. She showed it to him from where she sat and he leaped up immediately to lean over her and study it on the table. ‘That’s one of the best you’ve ever done! It’s like a flight of birds.’
‘They’ve often been a source of inspiration to me and recently I’ve been trying more than ever to capture the flow of movement in a bird on the wing.’
‘You’ve achieved it here.’
The design combined her characteristic simplicity of form with lovely sweeping lines. It was for a kidney-shaped snuffer-tray that would be hand-pierced with a bead mount surmounting the gallery that had symbolized birds between the railings.
‘I’m glad you like it.’ It meant much to her that he had recognized immediately that she had reached the ultimate stage in her designs. From now on she would be on the solid ground for which she had aimed for a long time. After this night there should be no looking back.
Excitement was still in her after he had left and she went upstairs to her bedchamber. Feeling a trifle flushed, she crossed to the window and opened it for some cool night air. It was noisy across at the Royal Oak as it always was on a Saturday night when travellers and local folk became merry together and soldiers from the armoury swelled the numbers in their scarlet coats. She listened for a while, never minding the bursts of raucous singing that often spilled into the road as people wended their way homewards, for these were the sounds she had known in her girlhood when Jack and Martha had kept the Heathcock, long before the days of their retirement.
From the copse, William glimpsed his mother in the moonlight as her hand, cuffed by the white lace of her pale gown, withdrew from pushing wide the latticed window. He stepped back still further into the shadows, although there was not the least chance of her seeing him, and darted away to the side gate of the Esdaile property. He had long since given up entering the mansion by the front entrance, for with the grounds being kept in trim again the chance of being seen from the main gates was doubled in moonlight as bright as on this night. Instead he had made a key for the rear door that gave access to the lawns and in the corridor within he could watch through a glass panel for Sarah’s coming.
As he reached the door, key in hand, he saw a letter wedged into it. Drawing it out, he guessed with a sickening lurch of disappointment that Sarah was unable to keep their tryst. Yet she must have been here only minutes before for she would not have risked the letter being there for any length of time. Not bothering to go indoors, he sat down on the doorstep and opening the shutter of his lantern focused its beam on to the letter the better to see what was written there.
His face became stark as her words informed him that all was over between them. The weeks apart had given her time to reflect and she wanted to be free of him. She had never loved him and as far as she was concerned he could throw away the key to the mansion because she would never visit it again. Hers to the gate had been used for the last time this evening and would be buried where it could never be found.
He crushed the letter in his hand with a groan that tore through him, thumping his fist down on his thigh and shaking his head in both refusal to accept what she had written and in despair. The memory of her animosity at the Beavers’ house returned to him, her resolute avoidance of his eyes even when he had given her that whispered explanation and his note, and he groaned again.
Throughout their long relationship she had persistently refused to say she loved him and there had been times when he had never been sure if it was due to a strange trait in her or her sheer cunning in keeping him forever on a string. Now it was clear that she had never loved him. She had used him as an instrument against her guardians, an act of defiance to prove herself. Why then, if she had felt she no longer had need of him, had she looked so drawn when he had last seen her. There was an answer to that: everybody had had the same look on their faces that day through sorrow over Elizabeth and he had given his own interpretation to Sarah’s expression, being ever on the look-out in his concern for her. Damnatio
n! What a fool he had been!
He sprang to his feet, extinguished the lantern and kicked it into the bushes. Thrusting the letter down into his pocket, he hurried back to the side gate. He felt bitterly resentful, unable to believe that after all there had been between them she had slipped away as easily as she appeared to suppose. Anger and uncertainty confused his mind. Only one thing was sure: in the meantime he was going to get drunk!
He burst into the Royal Oak. It was crowded, the air thick with smoke and he had to elbow his way through to the bar. ‘A tankard of black ale, landlord!’
‘Good evenin’, Mr Bateman. You be home then?’
‘As you see,’ he answered with a savage grin, ‘and with a thirst that you haven’t enough barrels to quench!’
‘Oh, ho! That sounds like a challenge, sir.’ There was laughter from those close by and a sudden air of expectancy. The landlord drew a quart tankard and set it frothing on to the bar. ‘There! Let’s see what you make of that.’
William took the tankard by the handle and swung it up to his lips. He gulped the ale down steadily. It was strong and potent, the perfect antidote for his wounded spirits. Breathlessly and to applause, he set the emptied tankard down again with a crash, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Fill it up again!’
His last clear sober thought was that he would sleep his binge off in the straw of the stables at his own home and return to face the consequences of a night out later the next day. The ale soon took effect. He had eaten nothing since noon, the picnic he had brought to share with Sarah still in the capacious pocket of his coat, and before long he was a main contributor to the bawdy songs that rent the night air. In such a jovial atmosphere ridiculous wagers arose as if out of the air. All William knew was that he had been wagered a shilling to walk the edge of the taproom bar without falling off. The landlord protested, shouting words of caution that he did not even hear in the hubbub. Like a tightrope-walker he set off, swaying dangerously, his feet going everywhere but the place he intended and twice he would have fallen off if willing hands had not pushed him back again. He reached the end and jumped off with flying coat-tails to collapse on the floor, helpless with laughter, propped against a chair.
The Silver Touch Page 31
