‘Not so quick,’ said the beadle, shifting his clay pipe in his capacious mouth. ‘I’ve already got two lots of you patrolling the square. I’m sending you round to Castle Street; there were housebreakers at number twelve on the square last night, and the maid says she saw a silver coffee pot like the one that got taken in the pawnbroker’s window. Go and visit the woman who owns it.’
‘Where’s the constable, then?’ said Digby ‘We should be led by him, and we’ve no warrant. Besides, it’s off our patch.’
‘I decide that, Digby,’ said the man with a tone of self-importance. ‘The constable has other things to attend to, and if it pertains to the square, it’s our business. It’s owned by a widow Dunning. Go round and see if you can get anything out ofher.’
Digby blocked out Watkin’s moaning as they trudged around to Castle Street. It had taken a moment before he had realized that they were heading to Mallory Dunning’s house, but now he had, the tension crackled through him. While Watkin squared his shoulders, Digby shoved him out of the way and knocked on the door.
It was opened just a crack, and Digby raised his lantern to make out the woman’s face as he said his name and business. She opened the door without a word.
‘Make sure you scrape your boots well,’ said Digby to Watkin. ‘We don’t want to be dragging dirt through Mrs Dunning’s house.’ He received a nod and a flash of approbation from her fine dark eyes, and she led them into the kitchen, shading the candle flame with her hands. It was a dark room, with bare floorboards, and a young girl was rolling pastry at the table, watched by a smaller girl.
‘You’re too early,’ said Mallory, following Digby’s gaze. ‘Apple tart, but not ready yet. Matthew,’ she addressed a young, stocky boy, who was watching the men with his mother’s eyes. ‘Go and fetch a pot of beer for Mr Digby and . . . ?’ She let her eyes rest on Watkin’s face.
‘W-Watkin,’ Watkin stammered, and Digby longed to give him another shove, for it was evident that his partner wasn’t used to dealing with the fairer sex.
‘What’s your business with me, gentlemen?’ said Mallory. ‘But where are my manners? You should sit down in the parlour. There’s no fire there, though.’
‘That is well,’ said Digby. ‘We are hardy. We’ll leave your girls to do their cooking.’
The parlour was a small room, and there were signs that it had once been neat enough. But with a stranger’s eye Digby noticed how sparsely furnished it was, and though it was clean, any elegance had long since ebbed away. The paper, once à la mode, had greyed with the London smoke, and was peeling from the wall. There were a few ornaments here and there, and a rug on the floor, run to threads from the children’s shoes. When Watkin sat down, the spindly chair he had chosen creaked under his weight.
‘How can I help you?’ said Mallory.
‘We’re calling about your business, Mrs Dunning,’ said Watkin.
Digby sat back in his chair. If anyone was going to be the bearer of bad tidings, he was happy for it to be Watkin.
‘The fact is, housebreakers visited Berkeley Square last night,’ said Watkin. ‘And we’ve been told a silver coffee pot from the robbery ended up in your shop. I think you know how grave it would be, if that were the case.’
Mallory took a breath. Digby didn’t know if it was just his imagination, but she seemed slightly paler; though in the low light, he could not be sure.
‘I doubt it, Mr Watkin,’ she said, without a tremor in her strong alto voice. ‘My shop is run by a manager, and it has done me more harm than good, I’ll grant you. But I keep a tight rein on it, sir, and I can tell you that no new stock has been brought today. I send my boy there to check every day, and Mr Ibbotson, the manager, must always report to me if he has bought anything; and I have no such report. You are free, good sirs, to go to the shop, and search there, in the morning. He is there at eight every day.’
The parlour door opened, and Matthew entered with two pint pots.
‘Thank you, young man,’ said Digby, as he took his. ‘You’re old enough to be a ’prentice, now, aren’t you?’ The boy nodded, the dimples beginning in his cheeks. ‘What do you want to be?’ said Digby.
‘A silversmith like grandpapa,’ said Matthew, without hesitation, and Digby frowned.
‘My father was a silver box-maker,’ said Mallory. ‘And his father before him. Though no one remembers that now; my good brother-in-law eclipsed him, with his fancy Bond Street shop.’
‘Mr Renard?’ said Digby. ‘Get on with him, did you?’
‘Mattie, go into the kitchen now,’ said Mallory. After the door closed behind him, she turned back to the watchmen. ‘I didn’t think well of him,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind telling you. He made my sister’s life a misery. And, at the last, he brought a stranger into his house, and now he has left him everything.’
She was an astonishing woman, thought Digby, as he stared into her eyes. Animated, as she was now, she seemed lit up from within.
‘Your husband, Mrs Dunning,’ said Watkin, showing signs that his memory was groaning into life, like a slow-moving automaton. ‘Was he not had up for receiving? Taking in melted-down silver plate in ingots?’
‘He was acquitted,’ said Mallory sharply. ‘My late husband was a good man, and too trusting of others. He never did a dishonest thing in his life, and the same goes for me.’
‘We believe you, ma’am,’ said Digby, downing his pint. ‘Come on, Watkin. We have troubled this good lady long enough.’
As he bundled Watkin down the hall towards the door, Digby turned back to Mallory. ‘Who do you think killed your brother-in-law, Mrs Dunning?’ he said.
Mallory did not seem moved by his words. She stood as though considering the question, a long tear of tallow running down the candle, the glitter of the flame in her black eyes. ‘Someone who hated him,’ she said. ‘But God knows, there were enough of them.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
20th June, 1792
Young Maynard came to me: sickly, hollow-eyed, without his chest puffed out. He told me that he wanted only the snuffbox back, and that his father would settle up all he owed me. That it was a family piece. When one has been treated as I have, you learn to savour moments such as these. Did the young dog think he would shake me off so easily? I told him no; that the box had been made by my wife’s father, and that I liked it. That it was mine, and I would keep it.
Of course, he lost his temper; swore, put his hand to his sword – an empty gesture, for he cares too much for his young face and too little for his honour to fight me.
After he had gone, I hid the box well, for I would not put it beyond his father to come to the shop when I am out, and tell Grisa to turn the place over for his sake.
‘All this flummery about your widowhood,’ said Avery sharply, as she cut a slice of fruit cake for Mary. ‘I forever hear Dr Taylor referring to it, as if you are a fine lady with independent means, when it is clear your income does not support such pretensions. There is decency to think of, of course, but they cannot expect you to be shut away in mourning for two years. Where I come from, if a tradesman dies, it is the duty of his wife to find a good replacement. Do not look so shocked! You are Mallory’s sister, after all.’
Mary yawned. ‘I think you speak to me of marriage because you are tempted yourself,’ she said. ‘I saw you downstairs in the shop, speaking with a very fine-looking gentleman.’
‘He was newly engaged,’ said Avery, with an attempt at primness. ‘And wanted advice on what silver plate his wife would wish for on the dining table.’ She smiled as Mary took a bite of cake. ‘Besides, I did not have long in the shop before Grisa saw me and chased me out. I alarmed him terribly, I believe.’
She leaned forwards, took another piece of cake and put it on Mary’s plate. ‘Eat it,’ she said. ‘I would have some colour in your cheeks.’
‘Am I improving well enough for you?’ said Mary.
‘No,’ said Avery.
‘Then you must make a plan of
action,’ said Mary, with a smile. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? I think I hear Mr Exham below.’
She had purposely left both doors open, to hear what was happening in the shop, and now she tiptoed out on to the landing. At the foot of the stairs, George Exham was talking to Benjamin. Mary had not seen him since the day of the funeral. Today, he was the man she remembered from times of old: neat and calm. He was wearing what looked like his Sunday clothes: a smart, moss-green coat, and a hat with a brilliant buckle that caught what light there was in the dark stairwell. She stood back, not wanting him to see her.
‘I thought Taylor would be open to offers. But if things are as you say,’ he said slowly.
‘They are.’ Benjamin’s voice was harsh. ‘There’s no need to mention marriage to her, dried-up witch as she is: I’ll save you the trouble. Why do you want her, anyway? I understood your affections were engaged elsewhere, as Mr Grisa would say.’
‘They were,’ said Exham. ‘That is, they are. But these are difficult times. The situation in France . . . the prices . . .’ He let his voice trail off.
‘Wanted some ready money, did you?’ said Benjamin. ‘Well, you’ll get none of it here.’
Mary’s heart was beating hard at their words, yet in her shock she had enough awareness to wonder why Exham, who was Benjamin’s superior in age and craft, did not reprimand him. But then she realized: of course, they know that he will inherit one day. He is to be cultivated. He is to be flattered. He could lock me in the cellar, she thought, and no one would help me, unless it was worth their while.
‘It seems I’ve wasted an afternoon,’ Exham said, putting his gloves on. ‘You’d best tell people. More will come.’
‘Let them,’ said Benjamin. He had assumed a rough edge to his boyish voice. It was artificial, and grating. ‘The answer will be the same. One day I will be master here, and she’ll get what’s coming to her.’
The coins Digby had given to the girl had been worth it, though as the immediate release of pleasure passed, he felt shame creep into him. Was she clean? he thought. It would be just his luck to be given the pox. She’d said she was just off the coach, fresh and clean from a hamlet near Oxford, ‘a few houses only, sir’. But now he remembered the precise way she’d said ‘fresh and clean’ and he began to doubt her. To his lust-clouded brain she could have said ‘French and dirty’ and he still would have done it.
Damn his lust, he thought, damn his sinfulness. She was haring off into the night now, a distant figure, carrying the coins with her, moving quick as a louse through dry hair. He wanted to call out to her retreating back. Come back here, just for a moment. Put your arms around me. I only wanted some comfort.
He picked up his lantern and began walking back to the watch stand on Hay Hill, where he knew he would find Watkin complaining. When he heard a cry it took him a moment to focus. He made out a struggling pair of figures, and began to run towards them.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. He was lurching a little; for he’d drunk so much porter at the Red Lion the landlord said he’d have to start a new slate for him. Then the cough came, drawing him up; and a small figure ran into the night, leaving a man, brushing himself off.
‘You alright there, sir?’ said Digby, catching his breath and coming towards him. And a fine gentleman he was too, with silver lace at his throat and wearing a waistcoat – which Digby just glimpsed – that looked as though it had taken seventeen hands to make it, all silver tissue and spangles.
‘Do not trouble yourself,’ said the young man. He was breathing noisily. His face was white, and pinched, and for a moment he put his hand up, as though he sought to shield his expression. I’m in your debt,’ he mumbled, opening his purse with trembling hands.
Digby knew the face well; he took the coins that were offered. ‘It’s a bad time of night to be wandering around here, sir,’ he said. ‘There are villains all about.’
‘It was the link-boy,’ said the man. ‘I didn’t know him. I paid him to see me home. The wretch.’
‘I didn’t see his light,’ said Digby.
‘He extinguished it when he tried to rob me,’ said the man. ‘I swear he could see in the dark, like the devil himself. It serves me right, I suppose. But all is well. I will wish you goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, and be careful,’ said Digby, his words slurring slightly. ‘This city’s a whole mess of darkness, you know, Mr Chichester.’
He turned back in the direction of the watch stand and walked away, glancing at the coins he had been given. Yes, the man had been generous: far too generous. He was sure the boy had been paid to do more than light him home. You could hardly blame the poor child for the scuffle. He shook his head as he pocketed the coins, and when he glanced behind him, wondering where the child had gone, he could see only darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
20th June, 1792
My new apprentice arrived today. His name is Benjamin. He is a very slight, timid kind of boy, but I think I will beat him into tolerable shape with strong words and the example of discipline. He will sleep in the shop, for I cannot favour him too much lest it draws attention from Grisa, who is a jealous employee, but he will be fed well with the remains from our table. I much prefer having a boy here such as him, with no youthful arrogance, for I am sure he will take well to instruction. I will be firm enough to teach him; but fair enough for him to give a good report to his aunt Sarah. It pleases me to have served Sarah in some way. There is something of her in him, I fancy.
The household had gone to church, but Joanna had cried off with a sick headache. She was not sick in body; but a glimpse of the front page of The Times from the day before had sent her mind spiralling and turning in on itself. It was why, she thought drily, a lady should never read the newspapers.
Foundling Hospital
Admission of Children
Persons desirous of obtaining Admissions of Children (such as are the proper objects of this Charity) into this Hospital, may apply between the hours of Ten and Three.
She had read it in the kitchen, the master’s abandoned newspaper brought downstairs for the servants to pore over, for he had sped away in his carriage that morning. Normally she controlled her imaginings, using them as a consolation even if they made reality a little more sour, but that small square in the newspaper had unlocked a jumble of sensations and images. It was then she thought that she had been exercising her mind too much with memories of Stephen, for the intensity of her thoughts threatened to overwhelm her. She locked herself in her room, and sat on the bed, her breath catching in her dry throat.
In her hand it was as though she could feel the small disc of metal, cold and hard, held so tight it left marks on her palm.
No, she thought, no. You are imagining things. You imagine too much. You are here, sitting in a small room in a house on Berkeley Square. The past is gone; it lives only in your mind. But there was no escaping it, whether she closed her eyes or kept them open.
The walk to the Foundling Hospital all those years ago had been the longest of her life, every step slowed by her exhaustion and her knowledge that these were the last moments she would spend with her child. Her daughter had slept against her chest, tied there with a piece of cloth, and Joanna kept her fingertips against the baby’s warm cheek as she walked. There had been no need for a token, no need at all. Everything is written down, the clerk had said. We have your name, from the petition. But she had pleaded for the small metal disc to be taken in anyway and, with a sigh, the man had eventually held out his hand. It was a token from the Frost Fair of 1776; an ineffectual souvenir of a distant girlhood. She had nothing of Stephen; nothing that signified their love, but the lock of hair. She would keep that, she had decided, for her sanity, else she began to think that she had imagined him. There was the money he had given her, but it was nearly all spent; and you could not leave money with a baby.
The worst thing was that she had believed she could be strong. As if her discipline and training as a servant could h
ave prepared her for it. She maintained that illusion until she untied the child and put her in the arms of the clerk, and then everything fell away. Pray keep her safe, she said. She fought to get the words out, for she was sobbing. I will call for her again. I only need time. One last glimpse of the baby’s face, an image burnt into her memory, and her life had diverged from that of her child. Part of her had died that day.
Her breathing began to slow. She had ridden out the memory, and was becoming calmer. She thought of Mr Chichester’s face. His generous gaze, the way he spoke to her. She thought of Harriet’s little mutterings as she patted her stomach. As she settled, she felt again that cold hollow emptiness in the pit of her stomach, and thought: I have no responsibility for you, Mrs Chichester. Whatever slight affection she had begun to feel for her charge, she aborted by force of will.
She could hear the distant sound of church bells as she went to Harriet’s room. She adjusted the boxes on the dressing table as though her purpose there was normal. She had persuaded Harriet to keep the key to the secretaire in one of the boxes in the dressing set, hidden by pins. She opened it, took out the key on its lank ribbon, and opened the box, remembering Harriet’s words: in there lies what was once the promise of happiness.
The interior of the secretaire was decorated delicately, the marquetry of different coloured woods forming images of flowers. The drawers were tiny, and the whole looked like something made for a doll to use, rather than a woman. Hastily pushed away were a few letters from Mama, for Joanna recognized the handwriting. The secret mechanism was simple enough; she supposed it had been made to suit Harriet’s simplicity, and it took her only a moment to work it out.
Joanna pulled out the letters; there were so many jammed into the compartment that they tumbled out, collapsing on to the leather-covered writing surface, bringing a faintly musky smell with them. They were jumbled, in no discernible order. Her heart beating hard with alarm, Joanna only glanced at them, her gaze sweeping over each page, absorbing some words and leaving others.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 18
