‘He was in debt, I understand,’ said Taylor. The young man shrugged.
Digby saw Taylor’s distressed expression, and almost felt compassion for him; almost, but not quite. He was in agreement with Taylor. There was something chilling about the young pup, something unfeeling in his detachment. Were we all like that once, he thought? In our youth, so unaware of suffering, so arrogant of its effects, that we were impervious to it? When I, I who have seen so much, do not care, it is because I am hardened to it, because I have steeled myself. Not this young man. Suffering has never touched him, and he believes it never will, because he is righteous. An involuntary shudder ran through him. Righteous; my God. To think yourself righteous is the worst crime of all.
Taylor passed a hand over his brow. ‘I am satisfied there is no link between the two. To me, the verdict is clear. Poor wretch. May his soul rest in peace.’
‘You have many cares at the moment, sir,’ said the young man, in an easy tone. ‘I hear there is much talk of Mrs Renard, that she is increasingly delicate.’
‘The lady is well enough,’ said Taylor. Digby guessed the doctor was trying to keep a light tone, but the words came out wrong, all sour and over-sharp, like a scold.
The young man raised his eyebrows and moved off without another word, or a bow. Digby saw Taylor take a step towards the boy’s retreating back. Was he feeling a tremor of panic, wondered Digby? Taylor seemed lost in this strange, post-Pierre world. The word was he was no longer welcomed by some of his cronies on Bond Street; was the world’s respect melting away?
Digby was startled out of his musings by Maynard, who had just entered, and patted him heartily on the shoulder as he passed. This rather bothered Digby, and not just because of his dealings with Maynard; he considered himself invisible, moving in and out of people’s lives like a ghost. Having given him startling proof of his visibility, Maynard saluted the company.
‘Can we get on, gentlemen?’ he said, his voice booming out above the general conversation. ‘I have pressing business elsewhere.’ There was a general rumble of discontent, but the irritation entered Taylor’s blood; Digby saw it flicker across his face.
The coroner’s meeting progressed quickly, with everyone agreeing on the verdict of suicide. Brass and Jennings covered the body. It would be cold enough in the night not to give the undertaker too much trouble.
‘A word with you, Mr Maynard,’ said Taylor, as people began to disperse.
Maynard’s lip gave that sardonic little twist that was familiar to Digby. The watchman moved further back into the shadows, in case he was noticed. He leaned against the wall, but it was too cold, and he soon stood up again. Maynard gave a slight bow and came over to the corner where Taylor stood.
‘I know you to be an honourable man, Maynard,’ Taylor said, and Digby saw surprise permeate Maynard’s disinterested expression. ‘I was most displeased to hear, therefore, that you have been speaking of Mrs Renard about the town.’
Maynard’s eyebrows remained up. ‘Am I to know why you level such a charge at me?’ he said, in his most imperious tone.
‘Come now, man,’ Taylor said. ‘I heard directly from a member of your club that you had been speaking of Mr Renard, and slandering him.’
‘Oh, Mr Renard,’ said Maynard, sounding bored, though Digby guessed he was far from it. ‘He is dead. What can it possibly matter? And if the slander, as you put it, is not fiction, but fact, then I have the perfect right to say what I wish.’
‘Damn you!’ cried Taylor. The shout broke from him with such suddenness that Digby jumped, as though a gun had been fired. Maynard leaned on his cane and looked at the floor. ‘Come about, now, Taylor,’ he murmured.
Taylor leaned in so close that Digby had to strain his sharp ears to hear him: he took the risk of leaning forwards out of the shadows. ‘I am telling you, Maynard, to act with some honour,’ he said. ‘Have some respect for the dead, and those left behind. Mrs Renard has enough to contend with without your malicious tongue.’
Maynard’s icy stare never wavered. ‘It’s chivalrous of you, Taylor, but Mrs Renard has nothing to fear from me,’ he said. ‘I have never slandered her in any way. If I spoke against anyone it is Renard, who . . .’ he leaned close ‘. . . was as damnable a rogue as I ever knew, friend of yours or not.’ He seemed angry now. ‘And shall I tell you what the talk is of now, Taylor? Word is you are sick with love for Mrs Renard, and that your behaviour to her has been far from honourable. And a gentleman said to me last night that on visiting the shop, he could already see the effects of it.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Dr Taylor.
‘Good God, man,’ said Maynard, in a low voice. ‘What a fool you are. She is with child. Look to yourself and your own reputation before bothering to defend that of a dead man. I wish you good day, sir.’ He went out, his cane tip ringing on the tavern’s stone floor.
Dr Taylor had frozen, his lips parted, as though he might cry out.
There was something compelling about it: the stricken doctor standing still and alone, staring into space. In the man’s expression, Digby thought he saw the movement of God. He wondered at the doctor’s surprise, for in his daily wanderings, Digby had noticed the bloom on Mrs Renard’s face; he knew there was love, and where love was, children would follow. He wanted to stay longer, perhaps offer a word or two of comfort to the doctor, for the enmity he had felt for Taylor had faded. But he had to go; his hand, as always, closed around the precious watch within his pocket. The way he moved his fingers over it was a kind of routine now, a comforting thing done by rote rather than choice. He took one long, last look at Taylor, then moved towards the door, keeping near the wall and walking carefully so as not to make any noise. Time was ticking on; and he had his own appointment to keep.
Joanna slipped out of the house. As she walked away from it she had the delicious feeling that she was dissolving into the darkness of the night, her new hat warming her head. The night had once made her shiver with fear, but now she welcomed it. It was her camouflage, the enabler of her freedom, and that freedom gave her courage. If there were robbers and villains about, she thought, she would be one too. She knew how to defend herself.
She didn’t come out every night. Sometimes she stayed with Harriet, sitting guard over her, keeping her calm and entertained. But as the girl’s belly grew larger so she grew more lethargic, and tonight her eyelids had been drooping by eight. Joanna made her way out of the house quietly, passing the butler as he snored loudly near the silver store, past Mrs Holland who had recently been trying to ingratiate herself. Her plot to topple Joanna lay in ruins. Joanna knew Holland had gone to Mr Chichester to report her for slipping out at night. But he had said nothing, and done nothing, and now Mrs Holland worshipped Joanna as a higher power, even as the household hierarchy began to falter and crumble, its master and mistress barely worthy of the names, such ineffective keepers of their servants as they were.
As Joanna neared the end of the mews she heard Digby’s low whistle. He was there, at the corner, and when he saw her, a sad smile spread across his face. ‘No Watkin tonight?’ she said.
‘Poetry,’ said Digby, with exaggerated pronunciation. ‘I hoped you’d come.’
‘Only for a moment,’ she said. ‘I can’t walk the circuit with you. I don’t care to take the risk of being seen tonight.’
‘Your face is half-covered,’ he said. ‘Who would know?’ He pulled her to him. In the shadows, she could not see his face clearly until he was near her. She pushed him away and shook her head.
‘I could come into the house,’ he said, a spark in his eyes.
‘And make me lose my place?’ she said. ‘I am not in the mood to gamble. It was made clear enough to me when I came here: no followers allowed. I am in trouble enough as it is.’ She tried not to say it: I cannot let you close to me again. They had not spoken about the watch, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, she thought of it, and the fear was enough to keep her awake until dawn crept over the London
sky.
‘You are a temptation to a man, Jo,’ he said. ‘Stay with me a while. Take pity on me. I’ve been to see a poor suicide looked over by the coroners.’
‘How dreadful,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t normally bother me,’ he said. ‘But he was an engraver and knew Renard. And as I walked here, I thought of Renard, and wondered if he who killed him is still out there, waiting in the shadows in the square.’
She said nothing, but let one hand rest on the back of his neck. Moving close, he hooked his chin over her shoulder, and huddled into her.
‘The warmth of you does me good,’ he said. ‘We understand each other, Jo, do we not?’
‘Yes. But why, I do not know,’ she said. The heat of his body had a soporific effect. She had spent so long wound tight that to be lulled by his embrace was a luxury. She pulled herself away unwillingly.
‘We understand each other because you have a heart as black as my own,’ he said, with a smile, a genuine smile that filled his eyes.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Stop teasing me.’
He leaned back against the wall, and sighed. ‘Why do we not have the liberty to do as we wish?’ he said. ‘And these wretches, within their high walls, with their fires and their food and their jewels. I hate them.’
‘All that envy,’ she said, stroking his hair. She understood it; but it made her feel cold inside to see the look on his face.
‘You understand me,’ he said. ‘I know you do.’
‘I thought I hated them once,’ she said. ‘But now, I cannot explain it.’
‘How is your mistress?’ he said.
‘Fractious. The master barely speaks to her.’
‘If he bought her and she does not give him kindness . . . her father recognized a plum when he saw him.’
‘No,’ said Joanna, quickening in defence of Harriet. ‘The money came from her family. Chichester’s a good name, an old name, and madam’s father wanted to marry his new money with old blood. It is all hers really, though she is owned by him now. He is a cold man.’
He leaned his forehead against hers, then looked up at the walls surrounding them. ‘I’ve done her an injustice then,’ he said. ‘They all seem the same to me. They built this place in my grandfather’s time. He told me they made the bricks here, made them in their kilns with the London clay. How the fine ladies and gentlemen in the streets nearby complained. They said the smoke ruined their fine drapes and furnishings.’ He kissed her again. ‘I wish I’d been the brickmaker,’ he said, and in the darkness she saw the glint of his teeth as he smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
17th October, 1792
A quarrel with one of Harriet’s footmen, a low-born scoundrel. The man said I have second-hand airs. That I spend so long with ‘my lady this and my lady that’ each day that I act like one. I damned him to hell and back. He is lucky I was not carrying a sword.
It shook me, and later I said more than I should have done. I told Taylor of my love for Harriet, thinking I could trust him. Surely any reasonable man would see her worth, and the comparative poverty of my wife’s character. Yet the look he gave me was terrible, as though he had been blinded by the knowledge, as though he saw nothing for a good few minutes. For a moment I thought he might weep. Is he, like Mary, about to succumb to acting as though he is on stage at Drury Lane? I clapped him on the back and tried to ease him with some lighter words. I am lucky that I did not tell him more.
Mary. The very name is hateful to me. How can I explain what it is to live, year after year, with a person who is a sore irritation. The very sound of her footstep on the stair sends a shadow over my evening.
‘So,’ said Grisa, as Mary and Alban entered the shop. ‘It is done.’ His expression was one of relief, tinged with sadness.
‘It is. And Miss Avery has left us to return to her family. Where’s Benjamin?’ said Alban.
‘I did as I told you I would. He has been sent to collect the hallmarked wares from Goldsmiths’ Hall; I did not wish him to see you return.’
‘We must keep things quiet for a while longer,’ said Mary.
‘Go upstairs, my dear, and rest,’ said Alban. ‘I will come and see you in a few moments.’ He turned to Grisa, but his expression showed that he was listening to his wife’s footsteps with solicitude.
‘She is delicate,’ said Grisa.
‘So would you be, if you had lived her life,’ said Alban. ‘Grief etches its way through us, leaving its mark like salt on silver.’ The emotion of the morning had loosened his instinct for concealment; he had been opened up by it. ‘How has trade been?’ he said, trying to inject briskness into his voice.
‘Quiet,’ said Grisa. ‘Until Mr Maynard called in.’
In her chamber, Mary undid her hair and sat on the bed. That morning, Avery had helped her dress, both she and Mary laughing and crying as they fumbled over their clothes and hair. It was not long past seven on the clock when they went down to the hackney carriage where Mallory waited, walking as quietly as they could down the stairs of the silent house, Ellen letting them out while Benjamin still slept.
The weather was dry, but the sky was covered with clouds. White light poured in through the carriage windows as it rattled through the London streets towards the City and the places she had known as a child.
‘I am glad you are going to be married at St Vedast’s,’ said Mallory, as the carriage tumbled along. ‘The gold-smiths’ church. Our father would have been proud.’ She had made an uneasy peace with the situation; Mary had insisted that Alban and her sister shake hands, and now she watched a faint smile dawn on Mallory’s face as the carriage turned into Foster Lane.
Their father had worked the metal all his life, and his father before him. With his death that legacy had been lost. Yet, here they were, the carriage bringing them back to the heart of the City, steps from Goldsmiths’ Hall, where the metal that had kept them their whole lives was assayed and hallmarked.
It was just before eight o’clock. The time was the only thing in common with Mary’s first marriage, and she panicked for a moment, hoping that it would not lay some kind of curse on this ceremony, before reminding herself to stay calm. The special licence had been secured in the utmost secrecy.
Jesse Chamac stood in the doorway of the church, waiting for her as Avery and Mallory helped her out of the carriage. He looked frail, and as she got down she noticed how green his eyes were: a hard tourmaline brightness that unnerved her for a moment.
‘How does he?’ she said. Though she could see, ahead of her, the figure of Alban waiting for her at the altar, she could not help herself. Jesse smiled. ‘He is nervous, and can barely believe it is true,’ he said. Then he offered her his arm, looking this way and that down the street, as though someone might come to interrupt them. ‘Come now,’ he said.
Mary sought to savour every moment, but she shook with nerves, and knew that she would not hold the memory in her mind. As the service began she wanted to slow it somehow, for the very words seemed too quick and disjointed.
Behind them, the church door opened, and a cold gust laid the candle flames flat and blue for a moment, almost snuffing them out. Mary turned, and at that first moment her eyes fell on the doorway, she saw them: her parents, a small figure linking them. It was only their silhouettes, but it was unmistakable, the light of the church door behind them: her mother, her father, and Eli. But when she blinked, it was only an acquaintance of Jesse’s and his wife, trying to slip into the church, embarrassed by the stir their entrance had caused. When Mary glanced at Mallory’s face, it was as though her sister had seen nothing at all: she stared ahead, at the gold words of the commandments inscribed on the black board behind the altar.
‘I thought,’ she said, and felt Alban’s hand tighten on hers. As the priest continued, she wondered what he had made of it; and she wanted to halt things, to explain to Alban what this blessing meant. But Alban was so rooted in the world, so calm, that he would never have thought such a thing, she k
new.
He did not pause as he leaned over the register, and signed his name: his hand small, neat, precise and graceful; Mary’s curving, elaborate, as though she sought to inject all her lost potential for artistry into this one moment.
As they left the church to return to Bond Street, she remembered the first night they had lain together, and how she had woken to feel the warmth of his hand on her back, him reaching out to her even as they slept. Their bond, forged in heat, had finally been blessed.
She was brushing her hair when her husband came into their chamber. She was smiling to herself, remembering Avery’s joy as she had kissed them on the church steps.
‘Avery says she is going back to her brother’s shop to find herself a husband,’ she said. ‘That she hopes she may find one as fine as you.’
Alban laughed. She loved the sound; it seemed to make everything in the world right, and she wondered if marriage would change things between them. They had lain together many times since that first night, a handful of days from their first kiss. On that first night they had undressed frantically, as though knowing if either paused they would draw back, forever, from what they had started. In their urgency, if they had heeded anything it was the need for silence; the only sound their breathing, the creak of the bed beneath them. In a matter of weeks she said to him that she thought she was with child, delight and fear flaring in her eyes at the idea of it.
One evening, held close by him, she had told him of her hatred for Pierre. Told him in a hushed voice, as though their lovemaking would be dissolved by her words, daring him to leave her. ‘I should have been stronger with Pierre; I should have seen, should have known who he was. He took everything I loved from me, and did I turn on him? No, I let him take my soul instead. I ask you: what would you do to the person that did that?’
He had said nothing, holding her, shushing her. But she had seen the fear twist in his eyes, fighting with the love that she knew he felt for her. They both knew the answer: I would want to kill them.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 28
