CHAPTER THIRTY
20th September, 1792
My wife is unwell again. Her sister, that has all the strength, is tending to her. A hard one, that. I do not have the patience with invalids, and I never thought I would be married to one. Except for the toothache, I have been well recently, God be praised. The time alone suits me. I think of Harriet. Her very name carries her sweetness; I have only to say it and I am filled with agreeable feelings.
Joanna walked swiftly down the mews road, the knife hidden beneath the folds of her cloak. When she heard Digby’s brief whistle her heart beat harder, but her pace did not slow, and her expression did not change. She stopped a foot or so in front of him.
She had thought of the watch many times since she had crept back to bed, leaving it in his pocket. She had even begun to think that the object was his security; that it represented a chance for them to escape. Until today, when on an errand she had passed the Renard shop, and remembered where she had seen the watch before.
He was leaning against the wall. ‘Are you not letting me in tonight?’ he said. She could tell from the expression on his face that he had not sensed that anything was wrong. What fools we are, she thought: thinking that we fit together so perfectly, that we know each thought in the other’s head, when we are just groping in the darkness.
‘No,’ she said. Then, her hand tight on the knife: ‘Your watch, Edward.’
She saw the glint of his eyes as they narrowed in the darkness. Every instinct warned her of danger; so when he took a step towards her she was quicker than him, and Digby found a knife against his throat, not the small knife he had given her, but a dessert knife, with its sharpened blade, held by his lover’s clenched fist.
‘Jo,’ he said.
‘Did you kill him, or filch it from him? You would swing for it either way,’ she said.
‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said. ‘Jo, Jo, put the knife down. Do you think I would hurt you?’
Grief welled up in her, as suddenly as fear had. ‘No,’ she said, but still she did not move.
‘Will you put it down?’ he said. ‘And let me speak.’ His voice was hushed, hoarse.
‘I am not a fool,’ she said. She heard a rushing sound in her ears, felt as though a thousand impulses were running through her. She did not know what was right, or who to trust; she could not even trust herself.
Digby gazed at her, his shoulders hunched. There was such a pitiful turn to his mouth that Joanna felt a sharp, keen sorrow. After a moment or two, it overtook the anger, and she let the knife fall a little way, an inch or two clear of his throat.
‘I take it you know who it belonged to?’ he said. She nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, as though to himself. ‘That is no surprise. He was always flashing his tatler, so I gather, just like he flashed everything else. The silver, the clothes, the wife. Things are just as I told you. I found him, and he was already cold. I took the watch. There: that is all.’
In the darkness Joanna leaned closer, as though by seeing his eyes she would know the truth. But she could see nothing unusual in his face; he seemed to wear the same expression that he always wore when he looked at her. His apparent serenity chilled her more than any expression of anger would have done.
‘What will you do?’ he said. ‘Will you betray me?’
‘To whom?’ she said, shivering. ‘And for whose sake – Renard’s? No, I will tell no one. You may take my word.’
Digby sighed. ‘Will you come here?’ He held his arms out to her hesitantly.
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You must go now.’
‘I will see you again?’ he said.
‘I cannot say. But you can rely on my word. Go now.’
He took a few steps away, backwards, looking at her. She saw his hand touch his pocket, and she realized, dully, that he was touching the watch. Then he turned his back to her and hurried away.
She was still holding the knife, tightly. She hid it in the folds of her sleeve. I could have killed someone tonight, she thought, and without a qualm. The thought distressed her, as though every firm boundary in her life was dissolving.
Alban said nothing as Grisa lurched through the door. It had been a long day, full of difficult customers. It was nearly ten o’clock; Alban had been about to close the shop, blowing out the many candles in the window display. He was holding a candlestick in his hands, about to lock it away in one of the glazed presses, when the door opened.
‘At last,’ he said, and he couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘Are you my keeper, Mr Steele?’ said Grisa. His breath smelt strongly of drink and as he walked to the counter his route veered wildly. ‘Here, I will help you shut up.’
‘There’s no need,’ said Alban. ‘You will damage the goods in that state. Benjamin will help me.’
‘Well, as you wish,’ said Grisa, leaning back against the wall and half-sliding down it. ‘I will do my part, Mr Steele, there is no need to give me such black looks. I will go through the ledgers tonight.’
‘Mrs Renard has the books,’ said Alban.
There was a dull thud as Benjamin’s fist connected with the counter. ‘You shouldn’t have let her near the accounts,’ he said. ‘She’ll curse the business, just like she’s cursed everything else here. Nothing is safe once she touches it. Mr Renard would tell you himself, if he could still speak. He is trying to tell us; his bench has a bloodstain on it – a new one. Have you not seen it?’
‘Hold your tongue,’ said Alban. He had wondered at the dark patch on the wood, and assumed some acid had been spilled. Benjamin’s explanation maddened him. ‘Mrs Renard is mistress of this establishment and I will not hear you speak of her in that way. I’ve had enough of this shop, and enough of your sour mutterings since you came back, to last me a lifetime.’
‘You’re an apprentice here, boy,’ said Grisa. ‘I or Mr Steele could beat you halfway round this house and not think anything of it, so do what he says.’
‘I have a right to speak,’ said Benjamin, a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘This will all be mine one day and there’s nothing you can do about it. And I tell you that woman is a witch. She went out the night Mr Renard died. She locked me in, and then I heard her at the door.’
Alban felt a prickle down the back of his neck, as though a cold rush of air had moved through the room. ‘You are lying,’ he said, thankful that his voice sounded steady. ‘You have seen too many plays; I swear you are paid too much, and work too little, to have room for these fantasies in your tiny head.’
‘It is not a lie!’ Benjamin cried. ‘I’ll tell you, and I’ll tell others, that she killed Mr Renard. They should bring back the old law and burn her for it, just as she should, under good old English law. Tom Doley told me a woman burnt for killing her husband, not so many years ago. They call it petty treason.’
Alban’s temper snapped. Without thinking of the consequences, he put down the piece of silver he was holding and drove Benjamin up against the wall. The boy struggled, but Alban could see the fear in his eyes and after a moment he stopped, as though surrendering.
‘I’ll break your neck if you say another word against her, here or anywhere else,’ Alban said.
‘Will you?’ said Benjamin, his voice thin and reedy with fear. ‘I see you’ve thrown your lot in with the devil, Mr Steele.’
Alban felt Grisa’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. He released the boy and Benjamin darted into the back room, slamming the door behind him.
‘Let go of me,’ said Alban. Grisa released him and stepped back. ‘If you wish to be of use,’ said Alban, ‘you can help me put the stock away.’
After everything was done, Alban went to his room without another word to anyone. He sat with his head in his hands. He tried to calm himself, but Benjamin’s words kept returning to him. There was a knot in the pit of his stomach, a sickening unease settling itself deep in him. He could not distance himself from it. Saying the words to himself, again and again, did n
ot calm him: whispering them, trying to unpick them. But they never lost the terror they roused in him: Mary, my love, what have you done?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
29th September, 1792
I have kept away from my wife. It was due to her poor attention, leaving the windows open at all times of the day and night, that made me so unwell last year. I am usually strong enough to overcome anything; but my wife tended to me inexpertly. Yet though I am frightened at the idea of my own sickness, the thought of her illness somehow cheers me, and raises a fierce sort of hope in my heart. If she were gone – the thought is seductive, though it should not be admitted to my mind.
A busy day. My patrons are returning to the city, and I feel the life-blood quickening in my veins. My wife, in trying to converse with me, gabbled on about the artistry of silver. I told her that the silversmith is part engineer, part banker. I said it to mock her, for I am strong and sure in my taste and judgement, and these are things that I know, from my experience of her, that she cannot understand. Besides, if she had any sense of taste, she would have responded to my gentle shaping of her in the first days of our marriage. I used to think it a pity I could not cast and chase her as I would a piece of silver; she will never be my masterpiece. I thought it possible, once, but that was long ago.
‘The apothecary cannot come near this shop,’ said Mary. ‘It is almost amusing to see; he nearly crossed the road just now to avoid the front window.’
Alban said nothing. They had closed the shop early, and he was buttoning up his greatcoat. Mary watched him pensively; she was alone, Avery having gone to stay with Mallory.
‘Where are you going, if you please?’ she said. She tried to soften her voice, so he would not be offended, but still he looked it: wary, and tired.
‘To visit my cousin and his family,’ he said. She noticed that he could hardly bear to look at her.
‘May I come with you?’ she said, surprising herself with the question. It was almost a comfort to see his astonishment; to see that he recognized what a risk she was taking. ‘The evenings are long and dark,’ she said. ‘And I do not want to be on my own. no one will see me with the hood of my cloak over my head.’ And half of Bond Street already thinks me out of my wits, she added to herself.
‘It’s a long way,’ said Alban. His face was still stern, and set. ‘I am going by foot, and it would tire you.’
‘It will not tire me,’ she said. ‘Unless you think it is not respectable?’
‘I do not care for that,’ he said, and sighed. ‘You may come if you wish.’
They walked side by side in the fading light. The sky, partly obscured by clouds, was graduating from blue to that dark sapphire that showed that night was breathing over it. She sensed Alban was uncomfortable, staring straight ahead, saying nothing, and keeping a good foot between them, as though he did not dare to get too close. I am dangerous, she thought, and instead of giving her a thrill it saddened her, and she wondered if she should have stayed in the parlour, watching the fire.
At Alban’s cousin’s house on Foster Lane, the room fell silent when she entered it. But Alban stood, and looked around at his family, and in a moment Agnes came forwards, and held Mary tight. Mary stayed on the outside of their circle, partaking of their food and thanking them, but saying little, only smiling at the jokes that were made, and occasionally finding Alban’s eyes upon her in the firelight, as they had fallen upon her so many times in the last few weeks on Bond Street. His look seemed to be a kind of declaration. At only one moment did he appear displeased: when Jesse, after several pints of beer, offered to show Mary the workshop, and she refused, gently but immediately.
When they left she declined Alban’s offer of a chair or a carriage, and they walked home in silence. It was a long way. As they neared Piccadilly she slipped her hand around his arm, and he made no acknowledgement of it, only continued to walk. It had been an easy movement to make, and yet she sensed the power of it, and it made her feel drunk with excitement. It took all her effort to continue without saying anything, to leave the moment as it was.
‘I am making you a cup of silver,’ he said. It was abrupt, no tenderness in the tone, said in a rush. ‘It is but half-finished. You were promised one, once. Benjamin said it. He knows too much, that boy.’
They continued to walk. Mary tried to think how Benjamin knew, imagining Pierre making a joke of it. Then the thought was overtaken with curiosity.
‘Why make one?’ she said. ‘What does it mean?’ She ventured it, after several minutes, as one turns over a card in a game played for high stakes.
‘I wish you to have something you were promised,’ he said. He stopped and turned to her, then shook his head with exasperation. ‘It means what you wish it to mean. I am not a man to make speeches, or to speak verse to you. If you want that you should send to Thomas Havering and his like.’ He turned back, and they walked on.
His words had stung her. She felt maddened by them. Why must she always occupy some limbo, some space where she had to interpret everything? She had already learned that a whole lifetime of interpretations may be wrong.
‘Do you think me the kind of woman that wants verses?’ she said. ‘What Havering said was far from poetic. At least he spoke clearly to me.’
They moved through a group of people, hearing laughter in the darkness, and Mary kept her head down, leaning on him for guidance. When they were once again alone, she removed her hand.
He took it, and put it back where it had been.
‘It seems I am constantly pursuing your good opinion,’ she said.
‘And yet,’ he said, ‘you did not care to come into the workshop.’
‘In the cellar,’ she said.
‘Yes. What was it? Has Mr Renard trained you too well? Did you not wish to look at the dirt and the dust of the trade that keeps you? Has he made the knowledge of hard work sour to you?’
She stopped, pulling him to a halt. She looked at the ground, breathing steadily, and when she began to speak her words were clear and unhurried.
‘When I was newly married, I told my husband that when I was a child I was frightened of the dark. That, in truth, I was still a little frightened of it. I was still a bride, and told him in a moment of confidence.’
She held his gaze. He stayed looking at her. She did not know if it cost him anything; she hoped that it did.
‘Not long after, my brother was taken away for the second time. I still had some spirit then, and I confronted my husband, imagining my words might have some weight with him. He locked me in the cellar for the night. I thought I would die of the fear. I only dared to challenge him once more after that; and that was when I knew Eli was dying. Though much good that did, for Eli or me. But that is why I did not go down into your workshop. You know nothing of the life I have lived.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said. Her hand was locked on his arm, hard, rooted.
‘I never did teach my husband,’ she said, ‘and I see I have not taught you, that I am not a piece of silver. I cannot go through fire and emerge unscathed. I have been hardened by these things. I am not here to be worked, to be shaped.’
‘I do not wish to shape you,’ he said.
‘Well, I must take your word for that,’ she said. ‘And to do so will be a sore test of my experience. What is there to gain? Not money. And I am no longer an ornament.’
‘There,’ he said, ‘we must differ.’
She let go of his arm and turned her back to him, looking out into the darkness.
‘I am not him,’ he said, and his voice was soft. She turned back, and looked at him.
‘What do you ask for?’ she said.
‘Only your presence,’ he said. ‘Your . . . friendship.’ It was an inadequate word.
‘You are a mystery,’ she said.
‘We are all mysteries to each other,’ he said.
‘My husband was a stranger to me when I married him,’ she said. ‘And he was a stranger when he died. When I first saw you, I felt
I knew you, completely. Yet I do not. And I have dealt too long with shadows.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. Above them, the buildings of Bond Street stood, and they seemed to Mary as impenetrable as the world she was trying to occupy. ‘I have always only spoken the truth to you.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But there is too much silence in between. I must know if what lies between us is real. You pretend to be a saint, but you are not a saint. Why did you come to Bond Street, after all that passed between us?’
‘I cannot tell you why I came here,’ said Alban. ‘I barely know it myself.’
His face was half-hidden in the gloom. He looked as though he was far away. She wondered if he stood again in church, a younger man, with a small boy running towards him, his eyes alight with joy It seemed to her then that there was no grand plan, only a succession of such moments. She took a step towards him, trying to see his eyes, to know just for a moment what he was thinking. She told herself this would be the last risk she would take.
He kissed her.
At the touch of his lips, the warmth of his body against hers, the coldness that had wrapped her heart for so long shifted slightly.
‘I am not who you think I am,’ she said, drawing away. ‘There are things you do not know.’
He said nothing, only drew her to him again, and in the kiss she sensed a promise.
Neither of them saw the figure in the shadows turn away, and begin to walk in the direction of Berkeley Square, his hand tight around the hilt of a knife.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
May, 1793
11th October, 1792
I have not written for some time. My head is so full of thoughts, yet I can only live in them; to write them down would be to deliver them of their power. I cannot make them real on the paper. I think of Harriet every day and every night. I do not have sufficient energy for my business; I do not care for my coffee house or the fellowship of Taylor. Unable to see Harriet, I send her notes. It is most disagreeable to have to find a different boy or porter every day to take them to her.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 26
