‘What on earth . . .’ said Taylor. He bowed hastily then walked quickly up the steps. Mary and Amelia followed him.
The shop door had been slammed shut the moment before; the cloth-wrapped bell was still banging dully against the wood. In the shop, Exham was standing. He was holding Bright Hemmings by the collar. Bright’s eyes were bulging with alarm. He was pale, his black hair loose about his shoulders.
‘See here,’ snarled Exham. Mary had known the engraver since her childhood, and never had she seen him like this, wild-eyed and trembling. He glared at Dr Taylor. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘The coffin should not have been shut!’
‘Mr Exham?’ said Mary, and her voice seemed to awaken him to reason.
‘Begging your pardon,’ he said, with a brief bow in Mary’s direction as he held the struggling Bright. ‘This villain has been walking up and down the streets telling anyone who will listen that he will marry you, Mrs Renard. We all know how he has been behaving. I told Dr Taylor I planned to find the rogue, and that he should be brought here to touch good Mr Renard; so that if the blood seeped from him, we would have our answer. But he would not delay; and now it is too late for that. It is my hope that in seeing you, good madam, the truth will be brought forwards.’
Mary had heard of it before. When she was a child old woman Moore had been murdered by her husband, and she had bled out when he had touched the corpse, as proof of his guilt.
Exham dragged Bright closer to Mary. ‘Will you look this good lady in the eyes, you wretch?’ he said. Bright whined, and shook his head, twisting away.
‘Then we have our answer, do we not?’ said Exham.
‘Wait,’ said Mary. ‘How can you believe Bright capable of such a thing? Did you tell the watch, or the constable, of this?’
‘I did tell the constable,’ said Exham. ‘And he laughed at me. I see he has fooled you all. But I recognize the cunning in his idiocy.’
As he said the last word, she saw the shame enter his eyes, the flash of colour in his cheeks. Eli.
‘If you will excuse me,’ he said. ‘I meant no insult to . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Mary dismissed his words with a short shake of the head. She turned towards the man he held, leaning over, his hair around his face. ‘You have known me a long time, Bright?’ she said.
He stared at the floor. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Take your courage, then. For if you are innocent nothing bad will befall you. Look at me.’
Slowly, Bright raised his eyes to her face. ‘It is true I said I wished you were my wife,’ he said. ‘But I did not harm him, milady. I swear it.’ His bottom lip was trembling, and as he concluded his speech, he began to weep.
Mary turned to Exham. ‘You will need better evidence than his foolish tongue to convict him, sir,’ she said. ‘I will leave you to converse with Dr Taylor. But I advise you to let him go.’
She felt overwhelmingly tired, but as she turned to go upstairs, she heard Exham shift. ‘Mrs Renard?’ he said.
She looked back.
‘I meant nothing against your brother, madam,’ he said. ‘He was a good, sweet boy. I do remember his face.’
‘As do I,’ said Mary.
They left her to climb the stairs, thinking she would go to the parlour and see to her guests; but she did not. She was glad she had gone against the old custom, and kept her chamber locked. She went to it, unlocked the door, and closed and locked it again, so that she could be alone.
Sitting there, waiting for the minutes to pass until her house was empty again, she was haunted by an image that had returned again and again in her mind despite all her attempts to forget it: a letter, burning in her fireplace, with a poker thrust through its heart. With this before her eyes, she bent her head, covered her face, and let herself weep, fully and openly, at last.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
13th June, 1792
This morning I dealt with agents from the Duke of Grafton, and various Earls and Lords despite the time of year. Then, I went, hastily, to the Chichesters. Mrs Chichester was in bed with a cold, but her husband bade me go up to her. He spoke to me most insolently, as though I am merely a tradesman. But his wife has great delicacy of character. She is, also, a beauty. I spent some time with her, enjoying her wonder and delight at the pieces of silver plate I showed her. I was pleased to hear that she will not be leaving town for the summer.
As I left, I passed a portrait, and recognized the semblance of the fair lady I had been granted an audience with. It captivated me: this image of perfection, somehow different from the woman I had just been conversing with, and yet adding to my impression of her.
Her maid is a sour thing. ‘I cannot wait all day, sir,’ she said, as I stood looking at the portrait. I will slip her a trinket or two; she will warm to me soon enough.
Walking away from the Chichester residence, I found myself smiling, and with real feeling. It was almost as though ten years had fallen away, and I was a young man again, unmarried, unhindered, bright with ambition and with faith in God’s grace.
Harriet had spent too long neglecting her duties, sending the footman to return calls for her with a handful of cards, knocking on doors outside the usual hours. At last, she was forced to go out herself, and she left Joanna at home.
Joanna locked herself in her room to sift through her belongings. She liked looking through the things she owned; she felt they rooted her in the present, and made her more real. Employers had been generous over the years with their gifts: a piece of ribbon here, a piece of spider lace there. Once, four gowns at once, from dear Mrs Higgins, as she lay dying. Today she wore one of these gowns, of grey silk, above a stiff black petticoat. She liked the grey: it suited the steely resolve she sought to cultivate, the self-control. It was a colour to help the soul, she thought, to bleach it of its colour: staid, calm, all passion gone. Some ladies’ maids sought to emulate their mistresses, flouncing around with feathers in their hair and the latest cut of dress, but Joanna prided herself on her invisibility. She was saving her coins for something. She didn’t know what, only that it would come, one day, and she would be ready, as she had not been ready for Stephen.
There was a little silver thimble that Pierre Renard had given her as a bribe to keep her in his favour. She had smiled and taken it when he had given it to her; but it was an insult, really, she thought. Not for her the heavy, crafted silver he sold the quality; but some flimsy thing that he had probably bought by the handful from a toy maker. But for the loss of the lock of Stephen’s hair – which she must find the strength to investigate – the loss of the man meant nothing at all.
The coins she looked at last, and she inspected each of them, rubbing them gently, biting one or two, as though they held some sacred mystery. One day, she knew, they would buy her something she had never had before: freedom.
Then she closed the box, locked it, pushed it under her bed, and wrapped a cloak she had extracted from the box around her. It was woollen, patched in two or three places. It was another habit she enjoyed; huddling into it, her mind returning to a familiar scene of the past. Within its warmth she could remember the comfort of a summer’s afternoon, grass working its way into the cloak as she and Stephen lay down upon it in a small hidden glade of the park. In the distance, she heard the sound of the bells that hung around the necks of the cows that grazed there. As he leaned close to her she smelt the leather of horse tack, and his hands were grey with dust. She had worried about her dress being crushed, her hair, so artfully arranged back then. But each movement was seamless and flowing, and there seemed no one moment when she leapt into the unknown. It shocked her, the easiness with which she had lent her body to something she had warned herself against, for almost only a moment after the pleasure came the cold emptiness of vulnerability.
As she struggled to cover herself, and to straighten her clothes, Stephen had watched her, chewing a piece of grass, a little paler than before. ‘I did not know I was your first,’ he said. ‘I saw the blood. I
won’t leave you.’ He looked changed, pensive, as though shocked by what they had done, when he had acted with such confidence.
She had not believed him, but he had told the truth. He had not left her, though she would find out later that he was not the man she thought he was. Friend, protector, traitor: these three strands twined into one when she thought of him. Some days he was always in her mind, as constant a companion as if he walked beside her; some days she couldn’t bear to think of him at all.
She had used the same cloak to cover him when he had been unwell, visiting him in his room above the stable during his last winter. He was racked by the headaches that destroyed his vision. He lay, white-faced, with her hand resting on his forehead. ‘It’s doing for me, Jo,’ he had said. He had already been chased by death for some time then. He had managed to dodge it, blocking out pain with some kind of natural ability to ignore. It was impossible to imagine him dead, he with his ready smile and quick tongue.
No person had witnessed her love for Stephen and their mutual suffering. Only this cloak, this object; not long after he had gone she even fancied it carried the scent of him. But that was years, so many years ago, she thought. She could not give the thought any credence now, not without admitting herself half-cracked.
In the real world, Harriet’s periodicals and two new novels had to be collected, and Joanna went gladly, still clutching her cloak around her. It was a short walk to the bookseller, and she walked quickly so she could pay a visit to her sister-in-law. Now that her brother was dead, his widow and children were all she had for family.
She found Mallory in her dingy parlour, cursing over papers from the pawnbrokers’ business her husband had left her a share in. When Joanna entered the kitchen Mallory cast her pen aside, leaving a large black blot on the sheet she had been adding accounts on.
‘We’ll have tea,’ she said.
Joanna put down the bound stack of books on the kitchen table with a thump. ‘Where are the children?’ she said.
‘Upstairs,’ said Mallory. ‘Lisbeth is quite the teacher now.’ Lisbeth was the eldest, and Joanna’s favourite: the only one who would not protest when Aunty Jo hugged and kissed her, but rather smile with an angelic sweetness, as though she understood perfectly her aunt’s need for affection though she did not need it herself.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,’ said Mallory as Joanna sat down. ‘How are they treating you in Berkeley Square?’
Joanna had promised herself she would be non-committal, but she could not help giving a sour little smile, as though her thoughts asserted themselves on her face without her wishing them to. ‘Well enough,’ she said. ‘Madam barely shows, but she is parading around the place patting her stomach.’ Her voice caught on the words, suddenly changing the balance of the conversation.
‘Can’t be easy for you,’ said Mallory, unlocking the tea caddy and scratching around one of the lead-lined compartments with a spoon in the hope of gathering enough tea for the pot.
Joanna shrugged. ‘No matter. As I grow older I have less patience with the young, that’s all. Do you find that?’
‘I never had the patience to start with,’ said Mallory.
‘Her life would be much easier if she spoke in a more kindly way to her husband,’ said Joanna. ‘If she contrived to keep his interest. He is a fine man.’
‘Think he’s worth effort, do you?’ said Mallory bluntly. Joanna glared at her. With characteristic sharpness, Mallory had put her finger on something buried, not even considered or ready to be brought into the light.
‘I didn’t say that, witch,’ she said, not without malice.
Mallory laughed. ‘I think whatever that young madam did you would not be satisfied with her. You and I were not made to be servants, Jo,’ she said. Then she put her hand tightly over Joanna’s. ‘But I know what it must cost you to see that girl with child. I’ll say what I’ve always said: it would never have worked. You did what was best.’
Joanna let her hand rest under Mallory’s. ‘As if I don’t know that,’ she said quietly. ‘And you mistake my tiredness for caring. How is your sister?’
As she left Mallory’s house and turned on to Piccadilly, Joanna looked over her shoulder at St James’s, casting the sharp shadow of its spire over the busy thoroughfare. Since the death of Pierre Renard, she had been aware that she had lost her dislike for Mary Renard. It was then she realized that it was a burden shed: one that she had carried and nursed, heavy on her, an ill-feeling, one more bitterness. It had unfurled itself, like a knot pulled free at one stroke.
As she walked, she revisited the memory, wondering if she would find it again. For it had seemed to her that Mary Renard had the perfect life, the protected life that Joanna had not. Once, she had seen Mary in the street, and made to speak to her, but the woman had looked over her head, as though she saw nothing. Are we not the same? Joanna thought. Our lives are only made different by the throw of a dice. But no, she thought, I fool myself. I would never have disliked her, except for that one day.
It was the day that Stephen had died. Joanna had held him all night, listening to his breathing slow, then stop. She didn’t move even after he had died, didn’t care for the cramp in her limbs. She held him until the sky began to lighten, and he was quite cold. Then she got up and left his body tucked up in bed. She went out on to the streets of London, dishevelled and disorientated. It was still early morning. She thought she would give herself one hour before it was real. For now she would pretend he was still there, waiting for her. no one would know; if she saw an acquaintance and they asked after him she could pretend that he still lived.
She couldn’t remember how long she walked for; she knew only that she was in disarray and that people were staring at her, thinking her drunk, probably a street walker. She was younger then, just out of the beginnings of love, and in her distress more than one man saw a delicate vulnerability he was prepared to pay for: something pure, probably fresh from the country, easy pickings. One man even pulled her towards him, and she struck him so hard, with such an intention to wound, that later she would wonder why she had dried blood under her fingernails.
She knew she must have walked for hours when she found herself in the churchyard of St James’s Piccadilly, because the clock was chiming eight. She took shelter in the green portion of the churchyard, the trees harbouring her, a small, dark, half-yard of peace. Even now she didn’t know why she had gone there; perhaps to say a prayer for Stephen, who was still waiting in his room for the world to mourn him.
It was just after eight when a carriage pulled up on Jermyn Street at the gate of the church. Joanna watched in fascination as the door opened, and a bride descended, landing heavily on the path. As she watched, dully, she realized that she recognized her: Mallory’s sister. She did not know her well; only remembered seeing her here and there, a quiet girl who had little interest in company and was always running after her younger brother. The little boy was nowhere to be seen. The girl was dressed expensively in a dress trimmed with silver lace. Her shoes had fine square buckles, with white stones that glittered in the light. She looked like a walking piece of silver, a creation that had been fashioned with intent and worked on for hours: polished, clear, reflecting light. But when Joanna looked at her face, her expression was sour. The only natural thing about her attire was the flower in her powdered hair: a white rose. As she climbed down, it fell to the ground, and the girl tutted, her face contorted with irritation.
‘Papa, look,’ she said, as her father descended and took her hand.
As they walked towards the church door, Joanna came out from her hiding place on to the path behind them, and stood there, watching them as they walked into the church, their pace almost funereally slow. After they had turned down the aisle, Joanna slipped into the back of the church, and heard the marriage ceremony of Pierre Renard and Mary Just.
Joanna had dreamed of being Stephen’s bride. In her mind she had come to such a church many times. She had imagined w
alking slowly down the aisle, the light pouring in on them from the huge windows. Stephen waited for her at the altar, turning to smile at her.
In the freshness of her grief, Joanna saw Mary Renard as a bride, and the contrast between them had sown the seeds of bitterness in her heart. She thought her vain, complacent, and unaware of the gift she had been given. She could not forgive someone so careless of their happiness.
She heard the vows said, then left the church. In her pocket was the slim bundle of folded banknotes that Stephen had given her the night before, dry as tinder under her fingertips. He had once been married, he had said; he still was. Now that he knew death was close, he had to clear his conscience by telling her the truth. He was choosing to give Joanna, his true wife, everything he had. But she knew it would not be enough, for she was pregnant.
Carrying Harriet’s books, the church behind her, Joanna walked on. Life had evened out their fates. At one time, her resentment towards Mary Renard had been such that she would not even stay with Harriet when Mr Renard called; she would pass him on the stairs rather than sit in the room to hear him babble about himself. On the night she had commissioned the pendant with Stephen’s hair in, Renard had invited her to have a dish of chocolate in the Bond Street shop, and she had gone, wondering if she would see Mary again, and if Mary would, at last, speak to her. But Mrs Renard had been indisposed on that night, and Mr Renard had dealt with her, smiling his strange smile as he took the lock of hair with his fumbling fingers.
As she walked back, so swiftly she was almost running, the air stung her eyes, and she felt the pain of another’s sorrow, a swelling tightness in the base of her neck. I envied you, she thought: and I am sorry. Thinking of the young bride she had seen stepping on to the churchyard path all those years before, she sped through the crowds, and back to Berkeley Square, clutching the bound stack of books to her breast.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 13
