The Silver Touch

by Rosalind Laker

  ‘I think I should go downstairs in readiness for when Peter comes. He has to be prepared for what has happened. You realize that Sarah must not be left?’

  ‘I’ll stay with her, Hester.’

  In the drawing-room Hester, heartened by Anne-Olympe’s use of her Christian name, used a poker on the damped-down fire to bring forth a cheerful spurt of flame. Then she lighted a few candles to lift the early dusk as had been done already in the bedchamber upstairs. She had barely set down the tinderbox when the front door was thrown open and Peter burst into the house, his face racked, his greatcoat flying out around him. He tossed his tricorn hat aside as she hurried to meet him.

  ‘What’s happened to Sarah?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Has she — ?’

  ‘No!’ She put her hands on his arms, guessing the dread that never left him. ‘Come and sit with me by the fire before you go upstairs. You should know everything that has happened first.’

  He threw off his greatcoat and followed her. When he had heard her out about William and Sarah he sat sombrely silent for a little while, his arms resting across his knees, his face deeply troubled. ‘My poor Sarah,’ he said at last. ‘There were times when I hoped she and I would mend each other’s shattered lives, but whenever a glimmer of that change appeared there were always setbacks and reversals, never more than in recent months.’ He did not elaborate, getting up to stand briefly with his back to the firelight, looking down at his mother. ‘When I have seen her I’ll come down again and take you home. I know one should never tell a woman she looks tired, but you do now and I think my remark excusable in the circumstances.’

  In the bedchamber, Anne-Olympe would have withdrawn when he entered, thinking he might want to be alone with Sarah, but he motioned that she should remain where she was. Sitting down on the bed, he took his wife’s hand up from the sheet where it lay and linked the limp fingers with his own.

  ‘Sarah! It’s Peter here. I’ve come home to be with you.’

  Anne-Olympe watched him with compassion as Sarah opened her eyes and he saw there was no response behind the dark irises. His dejection was almost tangible to her when eventually he gave up his attempt to communicate and turned away from the bed.

  ‘Tomorrow I shall call in the best doctor in London able to deal with disorders of the mind. In the meantime I thank you for what you did today, Anne-Olympe. As soon as I have taken my mother home I will relieve you at your post.’

  ‘It’s no hardship. Let me wait until your housekeeper returns to share the vigil. In the morning a nurse can be found.’

  His return to the house coincided with the homecoming of the housekeeper and several of the servants. Anne-Olympe heard him talking downstairs. It was not long before the housekeeper in her black silk apron came bustling into the bedchamber to take over.

  Peter did not hear Anne-Olympe enter the drawing-room where she had come to bid him good night. Fresh logs had been put on the fire and they crackled as the flames danced. He stood with his elbow resting on the marble mantel, his head in his hand, an unconscious pose of utter desolation. Although it was not possible she yearned to comfort him with her mouth and her arms and her body. Then he happened to raise his eyes and see her face reflected in the gilt-framed looking-glass above the mantel. All that had never been said between them was suddenly expressed silently with as much impact as if the walls rang with the sound.

  He swung round to her and she fell into his reaching arms. The force of his embrace took her feet from the ground and she gasped for a second in delirious joy before his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that she returned with the same ardency, her arms wrapped around his neck. He drew her with him to the sofa, where they kissed not once but many times, unable to assuage by the least degree their released passion for each other, murmurs and soft groans of unbearable pleasure mingling as his hand finally defeated the intricacies of her folded fichu and cupped her breast. How she found the strength to halt what was happening between them she was never to know, except that it rose out of her own willpower, the very trait in her that she had spoken of to Hester only a short time before.

  ‘No, Peter. I love you, but no — it can’t be. Ever!’

  Slowly and reluctantly he slid his caressing hand away from her trembling thigh, kissing her throat and her ears and her eyes and her temples. Then with his own words of love he kissed her mouth again. ‘I don’t know how to let you go, my darling, my love, my life.’

  ‘We have the consolation of knowing how we feel for each other.’

  ‘Every time you’re near me I’ll be loving you.’

  She stroked her fingertips down his face. ‘Our expressions will be guarded, but not our hearts. Not any longer.’

  When she was about to leave Jonathan arrived. He was dressed for an evening at his London club, but had felt bound to call on his brother to express his regrets, having received an account of the trouble from his mother.

  ‘Hard luck, isn’t it? Maybe Sarah will recover. One never knows.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘If you’re ready to go I’ll see you home first.’

  She looked up over her shoulder at the man she loved. ‘Good night, Peter.’

  ‘Good night,’ he replied quietly.

  When the first doctor was unable to give any useful advice, others came in turn to Bunhill Row. Several suggested putting Sarah in a private asylum, usually one in which they had a financial interest, and Peter immediately showed them the door. She made no improvement whatsoever. Since it was pointless keeping her in bed, she was dressed every day and, when the weather permitted, taken for walks, Hester insisting it was important she had exercise and fresh air. Everybody who cared about her came to see her often with little gifts, all hoping that one day the spark would return. Bill picked her the first ripe strawberry and she smiled at the taste, but it must have been a reflex action for nothing showed in her eyes. Eventually, at Peter’s suggestion, William was traced. It was not difficult to find him through goldsmithing circles, particularly since his work was becoming known, and he duly arrived at Number 107 where Hester and Peter awaited him.

  ‘I haven’t brought Lucy with me this time or our daughter. It would not have been seemly on this occasion when I’m here to help Sarah if I possibly can, but another time I should like to present them both.’

  Peter took him home and left him alone in the drawing-room with Sarah. He spent many hours with her that day and the next, talking, singing the old songs they had once sung together, retelling jokes that had made her laugh and clapping his hands on his knees in the rhythm of horses’ hooves that had once featured in one of their milder games. Finally, faced with defeat, he cradled her in his arms, grieving that in the end her will-o’-the-wisp ways and her elusive quality that had ever kept her dancing ahead of him had finally whisked her away from an awareness of life itself. Utterly docile, she stared ahead as he lowered her back in her chair. He went from the room with his hand over his eyes.

  Hester sometimes thought to herself that old age heightened rather than diminished a sensitivity towards love — or at least it did in her case. She could not decide when the realization came to her, but she was convinced that Peter and Anne-Olympe had spoken of their love to each other. They did not exchange glances, seek to be near each other or snatch any moments of close conversation, but the conviction remained.

  She was not in the least sentimental about her youngest son, however unaffected her maternal love might be. Jonathan had been lucky enough to wed a wife in a million, beautiful, talented and loving, but he had thrown everything away to indulge in his own unhealthy pleasures, which had left their mark on him. That streak of luck was still with him, because he could strut about among his friends and gambling acquaintances with the certain knowledge that he would never be cuckolded, unlike many others less fortunate and even less deserving. Anne-Olympe was a woman of her word and Hester began to ponder as to how she might show her daughter-in-law her approval in some tangible way. At the moment however it was difficult to think abou
t anything except the letter of commission that had come to her from the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Peter read it to her and talked about the commission. ‘This is a great honour again, Mother. Out of all the hundreds of gold- and silversmiths in the city you have been asked to make this wand, for which I see the Dean uses the old word of "virge". You should make the piece yourself. It is to be in daily use at services from the date it is received and you have always said that beautiful silver thrives on wear.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ It was all she had been able to say, well aware as to why he was encouraging her. He knew there was still that hurdle for her as far as ecclesiastical commissions were concerned. Her hands, wrinkled and age-spotted, were as capable as ever. If there was an aching in her fingers to fashion this newly commissioned piece, it battled with her inability to face having her heart gashed anew by the grief it would evoke.

  The design danced persistently in her mind. She could see its silver slenderness, a lovely simplicity to complement the glory of the great cathedral itself. Many times she took up her pencil to set it down and then turned to other work, shutting it out.

  The solution came to her one evening. It was so clear she could not understand why it had not come to her before. In the morning she went to Anne-Olympe’s workshop and found her engaged in casting silver buttons. As was her way, Hester came to the point at once.

  ‘I should like you to work with me on the virge for St Paul’s, if it is agreeable to you.’

  Anne-Olympe put down her work slowly, absorbing what had been said. ‘There is nothing I should like better. Only the preliminary work though. It should be your piece.’

  ‘Nevertheless it would be more convenient for both of us if you were in the main workshop. I know you have been installed here for a long time, but I should like you to consider transferring to Joss’s old bench.’

  ‘You would do this for me?’ Anne-Olympe’s head tilted slightly in incredulity.

  ‘It’s the least I can do. You’re agreeable then?’

  ‘I am indeed.’ Then Anne-Olympe added as Hester turned to leave, ‘You must know me as well as I know myself now.’

  It was an oblique reference to her resolve towards Peter. Hester paused in the doorway and looked back at her. ‘I believe I do. We are much alike, you and I.’

  As Hester had supposed, it was not torment but happiness that Anne-Olympe’s presence in the workshop gave Peter. It did not alter anything: she was out of his reach as she always would be; but to see her daily, to hear her voice and on occasions to work with her at the same bench, gave balm to the domestic tribulation that always awaited him at home. For her it also made her burdens lighter to bear. As for Jonathan, he continued to follow his own selfish path.

  Peter made a full-size model in wood from Hester’s preliminary design to determine the details of balance, taper and ‘feel’ of the finished article. From it he marked out the exact size and shape of the wand body on to sheet silver, getting the dimensions by rolling the wood pattern once across it. When it was cut, Anne-Olympe filed the long edges straight and afterwards annealed it by heat. When it was cold again she formed it into a perfect hollow, tapered tube by beating and working the metal until the edges were drawn together in a close joint. When she had finished soldering it, her part of the work was done.

  Hester gave great thought as to where she should position her ‘touch’, for the heavy blows necessary to the punching would otherwise have flattened and destroyed the wand. When her decision was made a plug of silver was soldered in at a chosen point, after which she turned her attention to making the caps that would close either end. Next came the shaping of the decorative ferrules with their simple bands that would enhance the top, middle and tip of the wand. For this task much thinner silver was used and made in three short sections in the same way as the body of the wand to give conical shapes, carefully sized to fit. Finally it was time to drive home her ‘touch’. H.B. The wand was now ready for assay and could assume its finished title of virge.

  It was taken to the Assay Office and brought back the same day. She set to work to clean away some slight scraping done in the punching home of the official hall-marks. Then came the polishing until finally it was done — an article of grace and beauty that was both functional and sheer pleasure to the eye. In the making of it she had found healing and peace.

  The virge commenced its ecclesiastical life most suitably on a Sunday. All the Batemans went to St Paul’s that day for morning service. They filled many seats, for all the grandchildren had come as well, including the grown-up ones, several with their married partners, two couples having babies of their own. Ann and Richard had come from York. Curiously they now looked the same age as if she had gained in years and he had lost them in what was obviously a contented match. Ann had been overwhelmed to see William again as he had been to see her.

  When the congregation rose at the entrance of the Cross, the choir, the attendant clergy and the Dean, Hester’s eyes went inevitably to her virge. It shone against and seemed part of the dazzling blaze of gold and jewel-like hues of the cathedral’s magnificence. The tip sparkled like a silver star, reflecting the brilliance from the great windows, and it bridged the years for her. She was reminded of the silver thimble that had once flashed on her mother’s finger, awakening her to the beauty of silver and thus to life itself.

  She was back at work next morning, but slipped quickly into an entirely advisory position. A desk was brought into the main workshop where it was set on a raised part of the floor. From it she was able to keep an eye on everything and although her body grew stouter and slower, her mind remained as alert as ever. No apprentice dared to slack under her eagle gaze and the family output increased still further. Hester scoffed when her critics accused her of turning out silver with as much speed and abundance as if she were a street magician pulling coloured ribbons from a hat. She had a good working team and that was the secret of success.

  Age finally caught up with her and on her eighty-first birthday Hester retired. Letticia, recently widowed, offered her a home and she accepted, giving Peter the chance to take up residence in Number 107 and to be in full charge of the workshop. The Bateman ‘touch’ became P.B.I.B as the brothers worked together, Jonathan not wanting to be confused with his late brother by using his initial and taking the most similar in shape instead.

  It proved to be an all too short period of only nine months, for one morning Jonathan collapsed and died of a heart seizure at his work-bench. He had bequeathed everything to Anne-Olympe. As it was her right to take her late husband’s position in the workshop, the Bateman ‘touch’ changed once again. This time it was P.B.A.B.

  *

  Not long after her eighty-third birthday, Hester dictated a new will. Peter arrived to write it for her, bringing the fresh air of the day into the drawing-room where she awaited him, a still-handsome, grey-haired man of fifty-two. They greeted each other affectionately and after he had told her the family news and reported the latest commissions, her interest in the business unfailing, they came to the purpose of his visit that day.

  ‘So you want to make a new will?’ He raised an eyebrow questioningly. In his opinion her previous will, which he had also written for her, had covered all contingencies.

  ‘That’s correct. Before we start I want to make sure that the family know that you are to have the spoon your father made me after you were born.’

  ‘They do, Mother. I promise you that Bill shall inherit it in his turn after me.’

  ‘Good.’ That pleased her. Bill was soon to complete his apprenticeship with a London goldsmith and she knew Peter had long since begun to treat him as the son he would never have. She gestured towards the table. ‘Letticia has left paper and pen and ink for you there.’

  ‘So I see.’ Drawing up a chair to the table, he settled to his task. He wrote at her dictation, rephrasing her words when legally necessary. His pen scratched in the quiet room. ‘Is that all you wish me to set
down?’ His hand reached for the sand-shaker to dry the ink.

  Her quick smile gave a youthful look to her face. ‘I have one more bequest. I’m bequeathing my tools of trade to Anne-Olympe just as your father once left them to me. Your partnership with her is adding prestige to the name of Bateman and it’s my tribute to her as one craftswoman to another.’

  He knew what that bequest would mean to the woman he loved and said appreciatively: ‘You could pay her no higher compliment, although I hope it will be many years yet before she learns of the honour you have bestowed on her.’

  After the will was signed and duly witnessed, he stayed on to dine with his mother and sister. When he left for home, Hester went to the window to watch him enter his coach and drive away. There was little doubt in her mind that in Anne-Olympe’s widowhood the two of them had become lovers as well as partners. She was glad of it. Even if poor Sarah in her state of oblivion should die, they could never wed, because the law prevented a man from marrying his brother’s widow.

  As for their work, they had given the articles they made their own characteristics of a lovely thread decoration and the domed lids of their coffee- and teapots were another feature. For their beautiful trays they had introduced a gadroon style of border that proclaimed their ‘touch’ — always able to give a piece grandeur while never straying from the Bateman principle of motion, simplicity and vitality in silver.

  Her thoughts turned to Bill. She smiled to herself as she remembered the day when he had come into the workshop and punched his fist down on her work-bench to demand her attention.

  ‘Which work-bench is going to be mine one day, Grandmother?’

  She had thumped her fist down in almost the same place. ‘This one, Bill! You shall have mine when you’re a grown man!’ They had laughed together and she had hugged him. It was no wonder that she was full of hope for the future. Just as she had been long ago when she first set eyes on a man called John Bateman.