Harriet took a breath, and screamed. Joanna felt the bones of her hand compress and shift under Harriet’s grip, and pushed back the pain. She felt the urge to pray, a long-forgotten defence against the agony of the moment, but all she could remember were the words that had been read at Stephen’s brief burial service. Still, they were something, and she whispered them under her breath so Harriet did not hear them. ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’ She thought of Digby, alone in her room, or creeping down through the passages of the house, and of his arms around her.
When Taylor arrived, his expressionless face comforted Joanna. She already felt exhausted with empathy. Harriet’s pain seemed to be infusing her own mind, as Stephen’s had during his last illness. She wondered where her defences had gone. Had Digby’s wordless touch, his hard arms around her, dissolved them so effectively? She slumped back in a chair as Taylor commenced his examination, seemingly impervious to Harriet’s howls. She had taken to calling for her mother.
‘The baby is almost here,’ Taylor said to Joanna. ‘Are all the necessary arrangements in place? Is the nursery prepared?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘Mr Chichester has engaged his own wet nurse, but she has not arrived in London yet. She is in Kent.’
Taylor tut-tutted under his breath as he searched through his bag.
The boy was born just after half past midnight. There was a long minute before he let out his first scream. There was a shock of recognition in Joanna’s heart; still holding Harriet’s hand, she rose to her feet.
Harriet lay uncovered, every ivory-pale limb trembling, smeared with blood. Joanna turned to her, trying to find her gaze and make her focus. ‘A healthy boy, madam,’ she said, loudly, and was rewarded with a blink. Harriet’s eyes, she realized, were not looking into nothing, but were following the child, as Taylor washed and dried him with practised roughness.
After he was swaddled, Joanna held out her arms to him. He lay like a blessing, heavy and warm, in her arms. The weight and warmth of him, the motion of him, his quivering life, drew something long-dormant from her. ‘He has brown hair, like the master, and eyes as blue as your own,’ she said to her mistress, unable to disguise the emotion in her voice. She wept.
Harriet said nothing. Joanna arranged the crook of Harriet’s arm against the pillow, and put the child there. Harriet looked at him, a long look as though she sought to memorize his face. ‘She needs rest,’ Taylor said to Joanna, dipping his hands in the bloody water, then drying them. ‘The child is small, though he screams healthily enough. I will tell Mr Chichester that the priest should be sent for as a precaution.’
‘It hardly seems necessary,’ said Joanna, gazing at the baby’s face. He seemed the embodiment of life. The words of death had dried up on her lips.
‘Of course it is necessary,’ said Taylor. ‘We must be sure that the germ of sin that is already in him does not send him plummeting to hell if he dies.’ He left the room without a backward glance. When Joanna went to search for him a few minutes later, she found him in the staircase hall, the heels of his hands against his eyes, as though he was weeping. She moved back before he saw her, and left him alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
August, 1793
Joanna had thought she would have been sorry to leave this house, for it was where her life had begun again, but as she moved around its rooms she felt nothing at all. They would be back, she supposed. The only thing she could think of missing was the quality of the light in the staircase hall; and light was everywhere, after all. It had never taken much for her to pack up and move on, and now she had more to move: two new gowns, several books, and a white paste brooch that glittered in candlelight, a gift from her grateful mistress.
On her way to see Harriet, Joanna slipped into the Grand Salon. It was sheeted up, muffled in white like a landscape under snow. But it wasn’t cold. In the slowly simmering heat of the August afternoon, the room smelt shut-up already. It had languished since winter. She went to the window and looked out over Berkeley Square. In the two months since baby Charles had been born, the square had set its growth forwards: the plane trees were larger now, though still saplings, and was that sprinkling of colour she could see a patch of flowers? What had once seemed dark and corrupt now seemed benign to her. But she also knew she would not miss it, for she travelled with her heart, and with the child that had such a place there. Here, he had been born, and she felt as if she had been born again in her own way, her dead feelings unhusked, her heart made new.
Though Charles stared through Harriet’s blue eyes, he resembled neither Renard nor Chichester. ‘We must wait,’ said Harriet, one day, without being questioned, ‘for him to grow.’ Joanna said nothing more, and over time, silence lay on silence, and dulled her misgivings. Harriet played with the child and dandled him on her knee, but she kept a distance from him that surprised Joanna, who loved him with an intensity that consumed all her energy.
Harriet was writing in her boudoir. ‘I must write to Mama before we leave,’ she said. She sat straight, upright. The expressions that crossed her face were light, and subtle, but Joanna knew that you could never mistake this Harriet for the empty-headed bride who had come to this house. Joanna had not seen her shed a tear since Charles had been born.
‘My husband wished me to write to the silversmith, and make enquiries about our new service,’ she said. ‘I have written it; will you kindly instruct one of the footmen to take it there?’ There was not so much as a flicker of her eyelids; she spoke as though there would be no connection in her mind with Renard. You have shed his ghost, thought Joanna, and it occurred to her that Harriet had done what she never could.
‘I will take it myself, madam, if you allow,’ said Joanna. ‘I wish to take a walk before we leave. Say goodbye to the London streets.’
‘Very well,’ said Harriet. ‘Goodness. How truly sentimental you are. I would never have thought it of you.’ She handed the letter to Joanna.
As Joanna put on her cloak, she thought of Digby She had not seen him since the night of Charles’s birth, though she had gone to look for him. She thought he must have been in the shadows, watching her. She did not call to him. She had too much pride to do that. She felt, with a touch of shame, that she could let him go easily. His sins were not her own. She had not loved him. And now there was Charles, who absorbed all her love and attention.
The pendant had come back to her too. A small packet, delivered by a boy who shrugged when she asked who had paid him. It had been the night after Charles’s birth and, like the baby, it had seemed to be a gift from the angels. She wore the pendant against her heart; Harriet approved of this, smiling tartly, and saying she was a woman of sensibility.
Joanna had faith again. She knew that Stephen was still working for her. He was with God, but he was still working for her in the world: Stephen and their daughter, little Lottie. Tonight, she thought, I will light the candles and think of you, every time a flame flares into life.
CHAPTER FORTY
The sun had risen. Orange strips of light fell diagonally across the grey rippled stone of the courtyard where Digby lived. Glowing golden light chased the darkness out of his room. He had lain awake all night, sleep banished by the prospect of deliverance. He had decided on his course of action, and even though he could not sleep, as the hours passed he became more and more accustomed to the idea. The knowledge made the decision for him; he felt peaceful, having abdicated responsibility. The peace made him almost ready to believe in a higher power; he had been on the brink of it for so long. He supposed Mary Steele was to be thanked for that.
He got up, as quietly as possible. He dressed carefully. He had extracted his best clothes from the chest before going to bed. He donned his best linen shirt, and his collarless black coat. These were the clothes he had sworn he would leave this dwelling in; these were the cloth
es he would wear when he escaped, and it wouldn’t be in his coffin.
He transferred the precious watch into his pocket. Only then did he set out for Berkeley Square. He walked quicker than usual; it took him less time than he had expected. He waited by the fence to the gardens.
He was disappointed in himself, for he had thought of this moment for a long time, and he had expected to enjoy it. Yet his hands were shaking, and when he observed closely he saw that the pounding of his heart trembled his shirt. He felt safe in the spot he had chosen and didn’t want to leave it.
When he saw Joanna turn from Hay’s Mews he felt even more shaken. She did not see him, walking briskly, her dark head up, on some mission. He felt a pang of longing for her. His memory of her had not had the power she had in the flesh. How straight she walked, he thought, how fine she looked; what a woman she was. ‘I wish I could take you with me,’ he said, in a whisper. He thought of running after her, calling her name. The thought of her turning, and looking at him with that smile she had, made his mouth water as though in anticipation of a feast. It would be so easy. But he had come so far, and if he spoke to her she could bring him down, or even worse, learn to look at him with contempt, one day.
He mounted the steps of the fine town house, then reached out, and banged the knocker. He tried to imprint its appearance in his mind, to remember this moment always: the brass studs in the door, the lion’s head gazing at him with its unseeing eyes.
The door opened and the butler’s face showed his disapproval; Digby saw the hesitation, and knew the man thought he might just slam the door in his face. He produced the coins, and put them in his hand. With a nod, the man opened the door further and leaned in to hear what he had to say.
‘Mrs Chichester will want to see me,’ he said. ‘Tell her it concerns Mr Pierre Renard.’ This was the exact moment to call: after breakfast, before visiting. He knew their routine of old.
He could hardly believe it, though, when the man waved him through into the hall. As he followed him, he looked up, and saw the light streaming in. It was as he had imagined it, but he was taller now, not a cowed child. He walked slowly towards a pair of double doors, which opened to show a small, plump woman: Mrs Chichester. The butler closed the door. It was the library, he thought, and looked around, trying to take every detail in.
‘What is it you have to say?’ she said, after the door had closed. He looked at her interestedly. She was more matronly now, more substantial; she had lost the slenderness she had as a bride, when he used to see her staring from her window. She had the layered toughness of a woman with experience. Digby wondered, just for a moment, if he had waited too long.
Digby took a deep breath, then removed the watch from his pocket and held it up so it swung like a pendulum. He watched her follow it with her eyes, see the slices of coloured stone, the finely chased gold case. Saw horror dawn on her face. She tried to get to the bell, but he was too quick for her. ‘Whoa there, madam,’ he said. He had her wrists. He had the sensation that if he just squeezed, he could break her; that one hand could easily encircle her neck. It was tempting in the way he had always found it tempting when a stagecoach came towards him at full pelt: a kind of curiosity about what would happen if he threw himself beneath the horses’ hooves.
‘Release me,’ she said. But the note of command in her voice was mixed with fear.
‘Only if you promise you’ll be good,’ he said. ‘No screaming, no shouting. It will serve you as well as me. For we both know the young lad isn’t your husband’s child, don’t we? If I were to say all that I knew, all hell would break loose.’
He observed with satisfaction that her eyes had widened. It had crossed his mind that she might call his bluff. From the far reaches of the house, he heard a baby cry. She nodded, and he released her.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘First, I want you to get me a drink,’ he said. He slipped the watch back into his pocket. He sat down in the nearest chair and looked around him, at the marble fireplace, the great pier glass, and beyond, the gardens. It was a view he had never seen before. He heard a clink, the sound of a silver wine label tinging against glass, and the sound of her pouring a drink. She was more sensible than he thought. A woman like her must have the hang of deception.
She offered him the glass. ‘I thank you,’ he said, and drank it back. It tasted as good as he thought it would: as sweet and cleansing as liquid fire.
‘You killed him,’ Harriet said. He looked up at her, in her fine white gown, her hands resting by her side. She looked calm. Quite the lady, he thought.
‘Not me,’ he said, putting the glass down a little heavily. Now he was here, he didn’t feel the urge to smash it in the fireplace. ‘He was cold when I found him.’
She sat down opposite him, her eyes never leaving his face.
‘He didn’t just have the watch,’ he said, ‘he had a letter for you, madam, that’s how I know what I know.’
‘What did it say?’ she said.
Poor lamb, he thought. Nothing. It said nothing. Your maid said it all, as she slept.
He shrugged. ‘Enough,’ he said.
‘May I see it?’ she said.
‘As if I’d bring it here,’ he said. ‘My security. You know it exists, and that’s enough. When you’ve settled with me, I’ll burn it, and you and your little baby boy can rest easy in your beds.’
‘I’ll settle with you,’ she said, with a swiftness that impressed him. ‘Name the price, and I will send you the money by way of one of my servants, tomorrow evening. My maid, Joanna.’
He nodded. He knew the wait would be agony. ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow, by the corner of Hill Street. Don’t send some gabbling maid. Send a man. He needn’t know what he carries. Make sure it’s not that Will. Talks a lot, he does.’ He was watching her close enough to see that something crumbled in her: her sense of secrets kept, scattered to the air like dust. We all have to learn, he thought. This is the gift I give you: knowledge.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It was a simple bloodstone box: a dark, dead green, spotted through with red. Its beauty lay in its simplicity, for the lid was carved into a shell shape, and the whole held in a delicate cage of gold, small flowers chased into it.
‘Forget-me-nots,’ said Mary. She took Alban’s glass from his hand, and looked over the gold work, smiling.
‘My father made this box,’ she said. ‘It is a type I recognize.’
‘Well, Mr Maynard will be pleased,’ said Alban. ‘It answers the description of his box. There were pills in it. I found it with a box of documents, which I will go through when I have leisure. But I have other things to think about.’
He looked towards the letter that lay on the workbench, a pale rectangle on the dark blemished wood. He had heard the distant jangle of the bell, and a low female voice. Grisa had brought it in, handing it to him with a sympathetic smile. Alban had read it once, briefly, his eyes flickering over the spiky characters in black ink before he cast it down.
‘What is that, my love?’ said Mary. He couldn’t bear the look of dread on her face. ‘You look so fatigued,’ she said. He couldn’t help but smile at her, so tiny in stature and so rounded. She came over to where he stood with laboured steps, and picked up the letter.
‘The Chichesters want their silver,’ said Alban. ‘It will be ready soon, but it seems that it is not soon enough for them.’ It was a reproach, he knew. Jesse and a couple of other outworkers were completing the service; it wanted only to be marked at the Hall. Alban had wanted to leave the business with the books clear, with everything paid for. But it was impossible. And he sensed that the Chichesters, the very customers he had courted, would take a long time to pay their bill, and much money had been laid out for their commission. He and Mary would be gone soon, though no date had been settled on, and he didn’t want to leave things in a tangle. It was his pride. He wanted a neat ending.
‘If it is nearly ready there is no need to worry, surely?’ said
Mary.
He held out his arms, embraced her, and held her tightly. ‘My dear,’ he said, and she moved her head to settle it against his shoulder, the small adjustment of love. ‘I am not a businessman, it seems,’ he said. ‘Will all turn out well?’
She moved away from him and looked up at him. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We must believe that, if we believe nothing else.’
She padded away, and he heard her ascending the stairs slowly.
Grisa returned, carrying the design for a wine cooler. ‘May we discuss the changes?’ he said. His accent was all but gone now. ‘I wish to make use of you while you are here.’
‘I wish we had been gone long since,’ said Alban. ‘While I must, I suppose, be grateful to Taylor for allowing us to stay here until now. I would we were far from here. When does Benjamin return?’
‘Not for a month or so,’ said Grisa. ‘And do not feel grateful to Taylor. There is no one who wants to take this place on. Not as it stands.’
Alban conversed with him for a while, making changes to the design that had been suggested by the patron. When Grisa left him alone he thought of Mary, her hands supporting her back as she stretched, her hair loose down her back. I would do it all again, he thought.
He busied himself with tidying through papers that he and Mary had left untended. Mallory’s son Mattie was only just beginning an apprenticeship with Jesse, to whom he had been bound. Alban had been happy for him, but the boy’s enthusiasm was a source of vague unease, for he knew one day it would go. ‘Perhaps not,’ said Mary, when he told her that. ‘Perhaps he will not be as hard on himself as you are.’ And she had smiled, and sipped her wine from her wedding cup.
Alban went to a chest of papers to look for another old design spoken of by Grisa’s client. As it was so often, he spoke in his mind to an imaginary Pierre. You were a sharp businessman, he thought, yet you left such disorder. The outside appearance had been clean and smooth, but underneath there was darkness and chaos. The accounts had been neat enough, but there had been a whole chest of other things. And then there was the dark wood box that Alban had found, taking up a floorboard to remove the corpse of a mouse. When he opened the chest he saw it where he had left it. He had tossed it there having glimpsed the interior; some papers, with Maynard’s snuffbox on top. Now, he burrowed his hands into it. Alban did not like irregularities. He decided he would know everything of Renard.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 31
