The Silk Merchant's Convenient Wife

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Don’t you want to practise?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d rather watch you,’ he replied, taking her gently by the elbow and escorting her to the stool.

  He sat beside Aurelia at the piano, watching her hands move swiftly over the keys, but his mind was not on the music. He leaned in towards her until his arm touched hers. She stopped playing and flashed a sideways smile at him.

  ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘Yes, but not too much to listen to you play.’

  She resumed playing and Jonathan let his mind wander again.

  How could he make his wife as happy as she made him? The depth of his affection for her ran so much deeper than he had suspected was possible. He had to do something that could lift her spirits and it had been her mention of Theodora’s plan to join a charitable group which gave him the idea. He could not imagine Aurelia sewing trousers and shirts, however he had a ready stock of children among his workers who still needed a teacher. Why not Aurelia? He had seen the way Millie had bloomed under her care. Construction of the apprentice house was well underway and by spring it would be ready to house the first occupants. His mind began to work as he weighed up the advantages and disadvantages of his plan and he only half-listened to the music. By the time it was bedtime he had decided.

  * * *

  Since he had been unable to make love to Aurelia, the evening ended at the top of the stairs in a ritual that had become a habit. Aurelia gave him a pensive look as if she was trying to decide whether this night would be the one he made love to her again. He wanted to so much that it made him hot and weak at the mere idea. He knew Aurelia desired him as much as he desired her, but did she really want to risk such a painful and heartbreaking outcome? It mystified Jonathan. Somehow he could never find the words to ask her and inevitably she would give an almost imperceptible shake of her head as resignation filled her eyes. Jonathan took Aurelia’s hands and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Goodnight, Aurelia, sleep well,’ he murmured as he always did. Ordinarily he turned resolutely to his own room where he spent his nights fighting the longing for her and the temptation to go to her that racked his body and soul. Tonight he added something extra to his farewell.

  ‘Will you visit me at the mill tomorrow?’

  She looked surprised, but pleased. ‘Of course. Why?’

  He lifted her hand to his lips and grinned over the top of it. Her eyes danced beneath the thick frame of lashes and Jonathan had to work doubly hard not to just pull her to him and begin seducing her.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to discover tomorrow.’

  He walked away as usual, but with a lighter spring in his step.

  * * *

  As he lay in bed that night he gazed by candlelight at the portrait that Cassandra had given him. He ran his finger over the painted Aurelia’s cheeks, wishing it was the real woman he was caressing. He had only married her for an heir, but now that was the least of his concerns. Keeping her safe and making her happy was all he cared about. What heir mattered in comparison to losing Aurelia? She was the family he had been searching for and he’d rather spend the next forty years enduring the frustration of not making love if it meant Aurelia was alive to share them with him. They would never become enemies like his parents, but until Aurelia was content he could never be satisfied.

  * * *

  The following morning they walked the short distance to the mill together. The temperature had turned, taking the frost with it, and the cycle of dull, fog-shrouded days was upon them. Umbrellas were useless. It didn’t as much rain as surround them with a wet shroud that slowly soaked every article of clothing. When Jonathan had taken Aurelia to the site of the new buildings before they had walked on frozen earth. Now slabs had been laid and surrounded with gravel. He couldn’t help remembering that the last time they had kissed passionately and indiscreetly with hands roaming to places they shouldn’t have. He was glad now that there were men working on the site so he had an excuse not to do it again and give in to his temptation.

  ‘This is where the apprentices will live,’ he announced, gesturing to the two-storey house that stood alongside the river. He took Aurelia’s hand and led her closer, keen to show her everything. ‘I thought a kitchen garden could go at the front and a privy and washhouse in the yard at the rear. The house isn’t finished inside, but the floors and staircases are in place. The bedrooms will fit twelve younger boys and eight girls. The boys will move to a third room once they reach the age of fourteen.’

  He carried on, describing the kitchen and schoolroom, the private room set aside for a wardress to live in and supervise the children, then realised he had been talking non-stop and giving Aurelia no opportunity to speak. He stopped and grinned.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It looks wonderful,’ Aurelia said enthusiastically, squeezing his arm. ‘They’re lucky to be working for you. I’m so pleased you brought me to see it.’

  ‘There is another reason I brought you,’ Jonathan admitted. ‘I have failed to find a teacher I believe could perform the role adequately and with due care for their welfare. I will be too busy between now and May preparing for the Great Exhibition to spend any further time on the matter.’

  He reached for her hand as if he was proposing to her. Any excuse to touch her, feel her warmth. ‘I wondered if you would like to start teaching the children?’

  ‘Me?’ Aurelia was clearly taken aback and made no attempt to hide it. He’d expected her to show more enthusiasm.

  She wrinkled her brow. ‘I don’t know if I could.’

  It was uncertainty of her ability rather than a lack of interest, Jonathan realised. ‘Only the younger boys at first,’ he explained. ‘The rudiments of counting, reading and writing their letters. Some Bible verses and enough words that you deem necessary for them to prosper.’

  ‘And the girls? What of them?’ Aurelia asked.

  She’d spoken before of her wish for the girls to be educated, too. Jonathan wondered briefly whether she would feel more confident teaching the girls. He had no objection to them learning the rudiments of literacy eventually, but to start with the boys needed to take precedence.

  ‘I’ve seen the care you have taken over Millie and believe you would be ideal to encourage them with household matters.’

  Aurelia stared up at the building.

  ‘Will you take the role?’ he asked.

  ‘If you think I’d be capable.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he answered. ‘I think you are capable of anything you set your mind to.’ He kissed her cheek. The brim of her bonnet was so big it almost enveloped his head, too. Who cared what the men might think?

  When they returned to the office, Edward had left and they were greeted by Jonathan’s clerk, Matthews. He was an efficient young man who had a habit of peering through his spectacles and gave Jonathan the impression he was far more organised than even Jonathan could contemplate.

  ‘Mr Langdon has returned home, Mr Harcourt, sir,’ Matthews said. ‘He would like you to call at his house at your earliest convenience. He seemed a little ill, if you will permit me to express an opinion.’

  Jonathan and Aurelia exchanged a worried glance.

  ‘Ill?’ Aurelia asked.

  ‘His cheeks whitened and he gave a gasp in his throat,’ interrupted the mill boy who was busy piling coals into the scuttle by the fireplace. ‘Sort of like this, Mr Harcourt.’

  They were treated to the sound of wheezing and gurgling from the lad who clearly imagined himself on the stage. It would have been comical if it hadn’t suggested Edward’s lungs were troubling him.

  ‘Do you mind returning home alone? I really should go to Edward,’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Jonathan held her hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine,’ he s
aid, but anxiety twisted his guts. Aurelia still didn’t know the whole extent of Edward’s illness. She wrapped her arms around Jonathan’s waist and pressed herself tightly against him, with her cheek against his chest. He put his arms around her and they stood, husband and wife together, comforting and receiving comfort. Jonathan caught a trace of the violet perfume she wore and it had the intoxicating effect of a glass of finest brandy. But for the presence of Matthews, Jonathan would have buried his face against the enticing spot behind her ear that so demanded to be nibbled. As it was he merely patted her on the back and bade her farewell.

  ‘I shall be home shortly.’

  They parted at the gates. At the end of the road Jonathan turned back to watch her as she crossed at the furthest end of the road. His heart felt lighter than it should be considering Edward’s possible condition, all thanks to a simple embrace that had lasted a moment longer than was proper. He was infatuated with her, searching for any signs that she might return his growing affection. He believed his feelings to be one sided, but the embrace she had just given him might be a hint that her regard for him ran a little deeper, too. If he was to lose Edward, then knowing Aurelia cared a little for him would sustain him through his grief. Alternately it might have been a comforting gesture from a kind woman towards a man she could see was troubled and he would be as alone as he always feared he might be.

  * * *

  Edward was lying on the sofa in his drawing room when Jonathan arrived. He was wearing a green-striped-satin smoking jacket with a yellow and blue tartan blanket pulled up to his waist and had a copy of Punch open face down on his chest. His cheeks were a good colour and it was clear to Jonathan’s relief that his condition had not deteriorated since last they had spoken. Upon expressing his relief Edward waved a hand.

  ‘Dr Tavistock worries over everything,’ he said. ‘I merely felt the chill and damp this morning and a fit of coughing made my head reel a little. I am not ready to leave this existence yet.’

  Jonathan pulled up a stool and sat beside him. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘As I am ordered to rest I shall spend the rest of the day planning some new patterns to take to the Great Exhibition. Florals or tartans, do you think? I have some fashion plates I would like to look through,’ Edward said. ‘Will you go to the desk in my study and bring me the pile in the top shelf? It’s the one with the red ribbon tied around it.’

  Jonathan made his way through to Edward’s study. It was a complete contrast to his own, well-ordered room, with stacks of newspapers and periodicals piled high among ledgers and books. It made Jonathan’s brain itch just to cross the threshold. How could Edward locate anything! He spent a good five minutes trying to locate what Edward had sent him for and when he finally unearthed the correct pile of papers it sent a whole sheaf of letters and papers sliding to the floor. He let slip an expletive as he knelt to gather them. As he did, a familiar address leapt out from amid the pile.

  Darbrough Court.

  He’d read it almost before he had realised what it was and felt vomit rise in the back of his throat. He squatted back on his heels and stared stupidly at the date and greeting.

  My dear Edward

  A letter dated a month previously.

  The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, but the signature at the bottom was a name he knew well.

  What he did not understand—what he could not comprehend in the slightest—was why the father he had not seen for over half his lifetime would be writing to Edward and signing the letter Affectionately, Christopher.

  He looked at the rest of the pile he had gathered and identified among the jumble the same paper with the same handwriting at least another five times. He knew he should not read them, but his curiosity was too great. He would read only the dates. The letters were all dated January and July. Thanks to Edward’s haphazard organisation they were not in consecutive order, but often enough to suggest the correspondence was habitual. The oldest was from six years’ previously and the most recent was from this year. It was clear his father and Edward wrote to each other twice yearly. Jonathan carefully folded the letters, trying his hardest not to read any of the contents. His hand trembled and he felt a spreading dampness across the back of his neck where his collar felt overbearingly tight and hot.

  He pushed himself upright and returned to Edward’s parlour, carrying the requested plates in one hand and the letters in the other. Edward was reading Punch when he entered the room, but looked over the top of the edition and chuckled.

  ‘This is masterful. The caricature of...’

  Jonathan stopped in front of him and held out the pile of letters, stone faced.

  ‘I think you have some explaining to do,’ he said.

  Edward lowered the periodical and steepled his fingers. Even then, Jonathan hoped Edward would have a satisfactory explanation, but from the look of shock that crossed the older man’s face, it seemed Jonathan was about to hear something that would wreck any friendship they had.

  ‘Yes,’ Edward said. ‘I rather think I do.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aurelia looked at the grandmother clock for the fifth time. Only ten minutes had passed since her previous visit to it. The hands now pointed to twenty-three minutes past eight. She bit her fingernail and tried to suppress the dread that filled her stomach and bubbled up whenever she counted the passing minutes.

  When Jonathan had not returned home at the end of the working day she had been a little surprised. He usually kept his hours so precisely. When an hour had passed her surprise had turned to anxiety at the thought that Edward’s condition must have been more serious than she had suspected. When dinner was almost ready she sent the kitchen boy to Edward’s house to ask after her husband and had received a reply that Mr Langdon had taken to his bed and Jonathan had left the house shortly after four.

  She ate alone, but with little appetite, and had instructed Mrs Barnes to keep a plate of the mutton stew hot and ready for Jonathan’s return. She tried to read, but did not want to go too much further in the story without Jonathan or he would lose his place. She went to her sitting room and began to translate a passage of Hesiod from Greek to English, but stared at the words as if she had never encountered them before and found the Greek as incomprehensible as Millie was finding the reading of English letters.

  When the clock struck nine she would consider sending a message to her mother asking advice. It would pain her to do it, but she could think of no alternative. Many wives were used to their husbands staying out all the hours of the night, drinking or keeping company with their friends, or worse, but Jonathan’s habits were usually so regular. He had never given the smallest hint that he ever visited one of the town’s women of questionable morals, but what if he was no longer interested in spending his nights with her because he was finding satisfaction elsewhere? She bit her lip anxiously and resisted returning to the clock once more.

  * * *

  The chimes were only halfway through the count of nine when she heard the front door slam. Dropping her book and pen, she reached the top of the stairs in time to see Jonathan vanish into his study. Aurelia swept downstairs after him and followed him into the room.

  Jonathan was standing with his back to her, both hands on the back of the chair in front of the desk. His head was bent over and he had not even removed his outer coat.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked nervously. ‘How is Edward?’

  His head snapped around, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the oil painting of the mill that hung on the wall.

  ‘How is Edward?’ he muttered, shaking his head.

  He left the room abruptly and went into the dining room. He stumbled slightly as he entered, knocking into the small three-legged table. Aurelia jumped in surprise. Her husband was usually so precise in his movements and so elegant that seeing him not fully in control of himself was
unnerving. He looked at her and she saw with horror that his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red.

  ‘What is wrong?’ she asked. He appeared to notice her properly for the first time. He didn’t answer, but turned away and poured himself a tumbler of whisky with a shaking hand, leaving the stopper out of the decanter. It rolled towards the edge of the table, but he simply stared at it. Aurelia moved forward and grabbed it before it fell to the floor.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asked.

  He stared at the glass in his hand and grimaced.

  ‘Mr Harcourt, tell me what is wrong,’ she demanded.

  He flinched and tipped back the whisky in one abrupt and violent motion, draining the glass. By now Aurelia could barely contain her anxiety. Her husband did not drink to excess. When he took spirits it was measured and enjoyed over time.

  ‘Jonathan!’ she exclaimed. His head snapped up and his eyes were glazed. Anger flared in them, dying away almost instantly like a match extinguished by the wind.

  ‘Jonathan,’ she said once more in a gentler tone. ‘Tell me what has happened please.’

  ‘My father is dying.’

  He stared at the glass in his hands as if not sure what it was.

  ‘My father is dying,’ he repeated and it was as if these words punctured him because he sagged into his chair with his head in his hands.

  ‘Your father?’ Aurelia frowned in confusion. ‘You mean Edward?’ Grief made her reel. ‘He seemed so vital only recently.’

  ‘I mean my father,’ Jonathan said, lifting his head. ‘I mean Christopher Harcourt of Darbrough Court near Durham.’

  ‘But he’s been dead for years,’ Aurelia blurted out. ‘Your mother was a widow.’

  Jonathan shook his head violently. ‘No. He hasn’t,’ he said in what was almost a snarl. ‘My mother was never widowed.’