‘I hear you’ve been asking questions about Pierre Renard,’ the man said.
Digby smiled and signalled to the landlord for another drink.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
5th September, 1792
Old man Maynard came to the shop today. He is all bustle and bluster. At the mention of the snuffbox, I put my hand in the air, to stop him from speaking, and turned my face away. It gave me great pleasure to tell him that, as his son has reneged on the terms of our other agreement, I am raising the percentage of interest to be charged. I thought he might be tipped into apoplexy, so purple he turned. It is a shame. For a long time, I hoped to cultivate him; a man does not do well to have too many enemies. But it soon became clear to me that he would never accept me, no matter my amiability or success in business. The man is old-fashioned; he cares only for the blood, and not for anyone who has risen, for he could never have done it himself. Anyhow, I told him of the new terms, gave him my word as a gentleman, and he said: ‘You, sir, are not a gentleman. You are as far from a gentleman as can be.’ There will be a day in the future when he will never dare to utter that. I can see it and feel it: one day, men will bow to me as their superior. I will have an estate in the country, as Thomas Havering has. And I will be the father of many children. My line will flourish.
As he regarded a pair of weighty silver bread baskets, it was with some surprise that Alban realized the smile that was flickering shyly across Grisa’s face was meant for him. He was unprepared for it; lost in his own thoughts, it seemed remarkable that Renard’s cynical manager was pleased to see him. Alban noticed that Grisa was less flamboyant than before; his French accent was even moderated a little, as though without Renard’s influence the man was gradually becoming Anglicized. Alban handed over two design sheets with commissions drawn on them.
‘More excellent work,’ said Grisa. ‘The mistress was most pleased with the last set of salts.’
Was she now, thought Alban. ‘As long as the customer was satisfied,’ he said. He had liked the designs, though it seemed strange to him that in the midst of lowness and lack of interest he could produce his best work, elegant wares with fine classical details, not overladen, but a perfect balance.
‘It feels as though things are going to the devil, some days,’ said Grisa, in a confiding tone. ‘I was checking the inventory and a pair of candlesticks is gone – gone!’ He gestured dramatically in the air. ‘They were old-fashioned things, the old French style, with shells and flowers, but heavy enough – they could have been melted down and made a dozen à la mode pieces, but can I find them? With the grief of monsieur’s death, I cannot even think when I last saw them.’
‘Perhaps they will turn up,’ said Alban.
He looked around the Renard showroom. The shop still had an air of elegance, though he thought the stock was a little more thinly displayed, and the frisson of hard efficiency which he assumed had been Renard’s had been eroded since his death. The place smelt of beeswax, and there was a faintly sulphurous odour emanating from the back room. ‘Are you boiling silver back there?’ said Alban.
Grisa nodded, and gave a little groan. ‘It was black,’ he said. ‘And I hardly trust the boy to do it well. My nerves. What with the news from France, I wonder why I carry on. What is it all for? There will be revolution here soon enough, and I’m sure the ruffians will find a way to steal our plate and jewels first.’ He shook his head, his eyes widening as they focused on something beyond the window.
Alban looked over his shoulder to see that a carriage had drawn up outside the shop. It was a fine equipage, painted a glossy brown, with a cypher on it in gold. As a man climbed down and approached the door Alban tried as best he could to be unobtrusive, stepping back against the wall. The door opened abruptly, the bell juddering as it was slammed shut.
The young man that entered was clearly a valued customer, though he was dressed in a greatcoat splashed with mud, and to Alban he looked little more than a child dressed in a man’s clothes. He had a relaxed demeanour, and as he entered the shop he looked around, his eyes shining, keen and sharp, as though he wished to create the impression of taking everything in. Grisa bowed so low Alban wondered whether his nose might touch his knee.
‘Mr Cheechester,’ he said, the French accent returning with a vengeance.
The young man smiled as though accepting his customary admiration. ‘Good day,’ he said. He leaned on the glazed counter, his eyes running over the jewels and trinkets there. It took him only a minute. ‘I would like that,’ he said, his finger resting above a necklace. ‘Will you wrap it? Add it to my bill.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Grisa, opening the counter with a flourish. ‘This is a new piece; would you care for a fitted box to be made?’
‘No, no,’ said Chichester. ‘It is merely a trifle. Wrap it in whatever you have, but do it neatly.’ Grisa scurried into the back room and returned in a moment with a piece of waxed paper. He laid the necklace down and began to wrap it gently.
‘These are very fine,’ said Mr Chichester, casually picking up one of the bread baskets that Alban had just delivered from the counter and feeling its weight. ‘Something like this would suit me very well. I have been thinking of a large commission for some time. Silver for the dining table.’
Alban saw disquiet cross Grisa’s face; he swallowed and stammered a little. ‘That has just been delivered for another gentleman,’ he said. ‘But the man that made it is here. May I present Mr Steele?’
‘Good day to you,’ said Chichester. He looked surprised to see another person there, though Alban warranted he must have noticed him before. As he looked at Alban a smile flitted over his frosty countenance. ‘The style of these seems perfect to me,’ he said. ‘Would you trouble yourself to call upon me in a day or so?’
‘Of course,’ said Grisa, before Alban could answer. ‘We would be delighted.’
‘Splendid,’ said Chichester, pocketing the wrapped necklace. ‘I am just returned to London from the country. I would be most pleased to see you on Tuesday, Mr Steele. This gentleman will direct you.’ With a flourish, he left the shop, his greatcoat swirling around him in such a flurry that Alban wondered whether it might get shut in the door. Grisa closed the door carefully behind him and watched him leap up into his carriage.
‘Why did you say that?’ said Alban, as Grisa hung his head exaggeratedly. ‘I am an outworker, that is all.’ His impulse was to shout at the man, for he had no patience these last few days, but he kept his tone controlled, bearing his cousins’ livelihood in mind.
‘You do not say non to a man such as him,’ said Grisa, in a wheedling tone. ‘Besides, he liked you, I could see it at once, and that is worth more in our trade than anything else. I managed it well enough in the past but since Mr Renard left us I have suffered a . . . crise. I expected madam to marry another silversmith quick enough, as any practical woman would, but she has not. There is too much work for me, and neither I nor,’ he lowered his voice, ‘that young fool monsieur left everything to has any real eye for design. I can recognize it though, Mr Steele, and you have it. I would ask for your assistance; it has been in my mind these past few days. The trustees will listen to me. You, and your cousin, will benefit from it.’
‘I must think on it,’ said Alban. He wasn’t entirely sure what Grisa was driving at; he only wanted to be out of the place. ‘In the meantime, I wish you good day.’ He left before Grisa could babble further, ignoring whatever the man was saying as he went out.
Grisa’s letter reached Foster Lane before Alban did. Alban wondered who Grisa had sent; some sprightly boy called up from the street and given a shining coin. It was lying on the table when he reached home; he broke the seal and frowned at the contents.
‘What is it?’ said Jesse, who was resting by the fire.
‘It’s that manager of Renard’s,’ said Alban. ‘He wishes me to assist him with the business until some other partner can be found. He promises us handsome compensation for it.’ He showed
the letter to Jesse.
‘Holy Jesus,’ said Jesse, reading the amount. ‘I knew he liked you. A strange one, that Grisa. I’ve often wondered what lies beneath all of his posturing.’
‘He says he can authorize it with Taylor, though I think he should not be making offers without his knowledge. I do not wish to be dragged into whatever knot these people are tying themselves into,’ said Alban. They had heard gossip at the Assay Office: all was not well in the Renard establishment.
‘The widow?’ said Jesse, seemingly unwilling to speak Mary’s name. Alban shook his head impatiently, as though she meant nothing.
‘Then you should do it,’ said Jesse, sounding tired. ‘If not for yourself, then us. When you leave us it will give us something to live on.’
He didn’t mean it, Alban persuaded himself, but the words stuck in him: another small dagger. He would be glad to be away from it all, one day soon.
It was an excitable Grisa who arranged the meeting with Taylor. The doctor had taken to calling every day, he said. So it was that Alban found himself, looking at the shelves of stock in the Renard shop without enthusiasm, waiting for Taylor to call upon them. He was a patient man; but being at the beck and call of Dr Taylor disturbed him. Many things disturbed him about the situation.
‘Is your mistress here?’ he asked. He found it hard to concentrate with the knowledge that Mary was upstairs. It meant that every sound, every movement from above increased the tension in him.
‘Non,’ said Grisa. ‘Miss Avery has taken her out.’
The shop door opened, and Taylor came in, removing his hat as he did so. He was short of breath. He made a study of avoiding Alban’s direct gaze for a moment as Grisa babbled introductions, before bowing slightly. ‘Have you worked silver all your life, Mr Steele?’ he said, as he did so.
‘Near enough,’ said Alban, taken aback by the question. Grisa looked between the two of them, his face full of anxious confusion.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, as though ruminating on something. ‘Well.’
‘Dr Taylor, with respect,’ said Grisa. ‘We need Mr Steele here. He is a fine silversmith and a busy man.’
‘I am not questioning his ability as a silversmith – believe me, Mr Steele, I am not – but this is a question of extreme delicacy and this decision has been rushed upon me. The other trustees are all agreeable to the idea, but I am closer to it than they. I feel a great sense of responsibility; which is why I pause. Do not be offended by it, I beg you.’
‘I am not offended,’ said Alban. ‘But do you need me, or no?’
‘If Mr Grisa says so,’ said Taylor. ‘There must be someone here to help. And with the boy, Benjamin – he has been turned over to Mrs Renard for now. I had hoped to find someone – to resolve the situation.’
‘I am sure you will not need me for long,’ said Alban. ‘You may ask at Goldsmiths’ Hall for my character. Has anyone come forwards to suggest a partnership?’
‘Not at all,’ said Taylor. ‘Some damned fool has been putting word around that the place is cursed. Superstition: in this day and age. When people are rioting on the streets and the Tree of Liberty is erected on the green at Stockwell, you would think they have more real fears to think on.’
‘Surely it is then that they turn to the imaginary ones,’ said Alban.
‘You may be right,’ said Taylor. ‘I am glad for your help, Mr Steele.’ He still looked troubled, and cast a dark look at Grisa as he turned away. ‘God save the King.’ He cast the words behind him as he yanked open the door.
‘God save the King,’ said Alban.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
7th September, 1792
I received a note from Mrs Chichester today. She has decided that she wishes for the designs to be changed once again. It did me good to receive her note, and to think of her pretty face. It is strange how, to think of such an agreeable thing seems like a change of season to me. I have always felt things deeply, and this small degree of warmth did well for me. I was in good temper with Dr Taylor this evening; he came and we spoke of the newspapers, and amused each other with our jokes. I am glad of his company, for I already feel the chill of autumn in the air, and when I think of the long evenings that are to come, I would not wish always to be either out of doors, or alone with my wife.
Joanna lay fully dressed on her bed. They had sent one of the maids to hammer on the door, but Joanna only stared at the ceiling, and did not make a sound.
Mr Chichester had returned.
A gift from him lay on the bed next to her: a garnet necklace wrapped in waxen paper. The stones did not sparkle, but they had a vividness she liked: the viscous red of the good wine she had drunk on that evening in his library. Her hand found the necklace without her turning, and she picked it up and suspended it from her hand, moving it this way and that. What did such a gift mean? She allowed herself to think that desolate word, that word she had rejected for so long. Perhaps.
She was glad she had not sent the letter to him. Her writing of it now seemed distant, like a dream, though it still troubled her. There was something terrible about a betrayal written down. Spoken, it was insubstantial, the words breaking and dissolving in the air like bubbles. She had decided that she would speak to him about Harriet’s infidelity.
She tried hard to picture him, but when she thought of his face it always disassembled, only leaving an impression: of warmth beneath a crust of coldness, a warmth that she was determined to draw out.
She waited for the maid to go back downstairs before she got up and unlocked the door.
In the kitchen, Mrs Holland was eating a crust of bread spread thick with golden butter. A smear of it glistened on her upper lip. ‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘Madam was asking for you. I’ve sent Jane up with a tray, but she’ll be whining all day about it.’
‘I’ll go up to her in a moment,’ said Joanna. As she spoke Jane descended, her jerking steps sending the breakfast things clattering on the tray.
‘She’s calling for you,’ she said, sullen. ‘She said you were supposed to sleep in her room last night.’
‘It was not practicable,’ said Joanna. ‘Not that I have to justify myself to you: no, nor anyone else, either.’
She turned and walked away. She could almost hear the glance that passed between Mrs Holland and the maid.
As she crossed the staircase hall the door of the library opened and Mr Chichester came out. ‘Well met, Miss Dunning,’ he said. She smiled, hoping that the heat she felt in her face wasn’t conveying itself as a blush. She curtseyed.
‘Will you come in here for a moment?’ he said. Joanna saw the glances of Will and Oliver. As the library door closed behind her she longed to take her handkerchief and stuff it in the keyhole to prevent their spying eyes. Instead, she moved down to one end of the room, and vowed to keep her voice as low and soft as she could. Her movement seemed to intrigue Chichester and he followed her, smiling.‘How was your time away, sir?’ she said.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I paid a brief visit to my father and family. Do not tell Mrs Chichester, if you please; she will only complain. How have things been here?’
He watched her with a steady, frank gaze. It was so open, so concentrated, that she felt the seduction of it. It was a strange thing that had not happened in years; even her body reacted.
‘They have been fairly quiet, sir,’ she said. ‘I am sure you had much more amusement and stimulation on your travels.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘My parents are so shaken about the events in France. All around it seems the old world is dissolving. Why, my father’s steward has a daughter who is as fine a miss as you could ever wish for. She speaks French and plays the spinet better than my wife does. Should you wish to go up in the world, Joanna? To transcend where God or whoever has placed you?’
He said it archly, evidently enjoying the words. She could hardly breathe, under his gaze. She would have to take a next step, but she had no idea what it should be. She could n
ot trust herself to weigh and balance the words quick enough; she was afraid.
‘I know my place, sir,’ she said. ‘I have never questioned it.’
It was the best kind of lie: so essential that she said it with absolute conviction, a conviction that almost made it true.
‘Well,’ he said, nodding and smiling, holding her gaze. She was warm in a way that she could not remember feeling for years. In that moment she did not even think of betraying Harriet. She only wanted to stay beneath his gaze. To be seen.
‘I saw my wife just now,’ he said.
‘You did?’ she said, the words breaking from her before she had a moment to stop them.
‘For a moment only,’ he said. ‘She looks well. You have done a marvellous job of patching her up. I have to go now. But I wish to speak to you later, perhaps this evening? You may slip out to me when I come in; I will light my own way.’
‘Sir,’ she said, curtseying, thinking how fine he looked as he opened the door and strode across the staircase hall.
Her happiness made Joanna merciful that day. She lived within a kind of dream world, smiling sweetly at every reprimand, and carrying out every want of Harriet’s without even internal criticism.
She was still laced in, but her arms were bare, when she heard the master enter the house that night. When she checked her reflection in the fragment of looking glass the garnet necklace was vivid as blood against her white skin. She had brushed out her dark hair carefully by the light of the extra candles he had allowed her. The effect was pleasing; in the soft light, she could almost imagine that she was young again.
Without stopping to pull a wrap around her shoulders, she walked barefoot down the back stairs, carrying one of the new candles in a silver chamberstick she had taken from Harriet’s dressing table. The stone stairs were cold under her feet and she trembled against her will, feeling the rush of cold from the winter night, a door opened somewhere in the house. She came out on the landing just as he approached his room, one hand brushing against the wall as he walked, a little unsteady. He was alone, as he had promised. But as she came out of the shadows he flinched, as though some reverie had been interrupted.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 21
