He did not think much as he went through the papers, tasting the dust. They seemed meaningless: receipts for confectionary and perfumes. He swallowed hard, wondering if Renard had bought them for Mary. He hardly felt them in his hands, he was so preoccupied with his own misery and sense of failure. His wife told him he should cast it off, as if it was an outmoded coat, but she did not realize that it was as inescapable to him as the sky. It had come again, and he could only hope one day it would dissolve. As he delved through the scraps of paper his hand hit something firm.
It was a small book, covered with ruddy calfskin, smooth and cool in his hand from its resting place. He opened it, and read the words written on the first page. There was an immediate familiarity to the hand and the tone; and Alban faltered for a moment, astonishment releasing the tension in him. Then he took a breath, and rocked back on to his heels as he read.
This book has been ordered special for me from Mr Laveen. The best marbled paper, the finest calfskin, although we had a dispute about the quality of the gilding; but it is well enough. One day, all of the things in my house will be as beautiful as this book.
I wish to keep a record of my thoughts; not just for myself (for there are few persons I can confide in), but because the generations that follow me will wish to know of Pierre Renard. Founder of a dynasty of silversmiths. Gentleman. This is not mere intention, but resolution; I have my eyes set high. This precious record will serve as a reminder of the rough road I have travelled, when I one day come to write of my life. For now, I will keep it tucked away: as safe as silver.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Mary was aware of nothing but the pain. The agony filled her head, pushing out all reasonable thoughts. I will die, she thought: and she opened her mouth to tell Mallory, but could not speak.
Before her, Eli walked. He was not in the aisle of St James’s Church, but on Foster Lane, running his hand along the stones of the houses, laughing, zig-zagging here and there. She waited for him to turn and smile at her, feeling the tears on her face, knowing that once she took his hand there would be no way back.
She wanted to say: bring Alban. Let me kiss him. Let me say goodbye. But she could not speak.
Mallory’s face swam before her, and she saw softness there. I know the pain, she wanted to tell her, I understand it now. She was proud with herself, for she was not making a sound.
She had never thought a child would be born alive here, in Bond Street, in this wretched house full of shadows. She should have made Alban take her to Chester. She was sure there, the air would be clearer, there would be no corruption waiting to claim her or her baby, and the dark shadow of Pierre would not stand in the corner, waiting to take her happiness. She heard footsteps, and gasped for air as Mallory left the room.
‘Get Taylor,’ said Mallory to Alban. She shoved him in the shoulder. ‘Whatever is wrong between you and him, he is the best man for this business, and he will help her. For the sake of your wife and child!’
He went out into the night without a word. It was against every instinct to go to the house, with its black door and polished step. But he went, knowing that Mallory always spoke the truth. He went, and he hammered on the door, then when no one came, called up, the desperate cry ripping its way out of his throat.
Amelia Taylor came to the door when she heard Alban’s voice, its notes piercing in the night, half-hysterical. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, and she carried a candle. ‘He is not here,’ she said. ‘Is it her time? God bless her. Go to Cracknell.’
Mr Cracknell nodded at Mallory as he passed her in the corridor. Mallory nodded back. ‘He attended my first child,’ she said to Alban. ‘In the days when I had better standing than I do now, and when he was learning his trade.’ She did not want to go into the next room, and neither did she want Alban to go. There was too much blood.
After a few minutes Cracknell came out, his hands only half-washed. Mallory passed him, and went back into the room. Alban listened for his wife’s voice, but could hear nothing.
‘I can save her, or the child,’ said Cracknell. ‘She’s not a brood mare like her sister. If you want a son, Steele, this might be your only chance.’
‘Save her,’ Alban said. He saw a frown cross Cracknell’s face. He leaned forwards, his eyes prising a glance from the doctor. ‘Her.’ He gave the word full weight, as he would put the weight into a hammer strike. Cracknell nodded.
Alban went to Mary, and laid a kiss on her forehead, though she did not see him, her expression confused. Then he went to the parlour and sat alone. Ellen had left the house, finding a place with some respectable tradesman. But Grisa came in, in his nightgown and his ridiculous red nightcap, and poured Alban a glass of wine, which Alban pushed away. Had he thought it would do any good, he would have prayed.
The clock ticked. He heard running feet. It was Mallory. ‘She lives,’ she said. Her eyes were red. ‘And so does your son, but he is weak, Alban, he is weak.’
Alban ran past her. He wrung Cracknell’s hand. Mary lay, prone and pale. Alban put his face into his wife’s hair, and stared at her until her eyes focused on him. She smiled. There was a slight mewling sound. Alban raised his eyes and looked at his son, lying beside Mary. ‘Mrs Dunning has gone to fetch the priest,’ said Cracknell. Alban shook his head. He didn’t have the strength to resist.
He lay next to Mary until the priest came. ‘What will you call him?’ the man said. Mary smiled at Alban.
‘Edmund,’ he said.
‘Your father’s name?’ asked Cracknell, who had agreed to stand godparent. ‘No,’ said Alban. ‘He was the man who first taught me to work silver.’
Light was only barely touching the sky when Dr Taylor came to the Steele house on Bond Street, and knocked until he was admitted by Grisa. ‘The sky is the colour of mud,’ he said. ‘No stars, no moon. I could barely find my way. My wife told me. I waited, until I could wait no longer.’
Alban came down the stairs, protecting his flickering candle with one hand, dressed as though for a day’s work. ‘I will speak to you in the shop,’ he said, and nodded at Grisa to go.
Taylor went into the shop. Around him, the silver that had not been locked in the safe glowed dully, in dim coldness. He looked around as though he felt enclosed by the shelves, by the counter that he had seen his friend Pierre lean on so many times. When he stopped looking around he stared at Alban. Alban pulled out a chair for him from behind the counter, but Taylor shook his head.
‘Does she live?’ he said eventually. His voice sounded hoarse. His neckcloth was undone, and he had come out without his coat. Alban saw the glint of spittle on his lips.
‘Yes,’ said Alban. ‘She lives, and so does our son, at present. Mrs Dunning is with them. They are both very weak.’
‘I am glad she lives,’ said Taylor. ‘Even though I have not played my part in it, now. I failed her tonight. Had I known, I would have come – you must know that.’
‘Would you like to see our son?’ said Alban; it cost him everything to say it. Taylor shook his head, and moved as if to withdraw. ‘Stay a moment,’ said Alban. ‘There are things we have to say to each other.’
‘No,’ said Taylor. ‘I do not wish to discuss your marriage. It is beneath her – it pains me to say it – but it is so. But it is done, before God, and I cannot undo it.’
‘Surely you wish her to be happy?’ said Alban.
Taylor looked at him with amazement. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘But I do not believe that marriage to you will bring her that. Forgive me – my words sound harsh as I say them. But Pierre was a person who could not be replaced.’
‘Tell me of him,’ said Alban. ‘And then I will tell you what I have to say to you; and it does not concern my marriage, or your poor opinion of me.’
He gestured towards the chair, and at last Taylor sat down, heavily, bowed forwards.
‘He was an exceptional man,’ said Taylor. ‘It is true, there was a sharpness to him, and he made enemies – not least bec
ause of his handsome face. But there was a true sympathy between him and me. To me, he confided his hopes – of a family, of building this business. And he told me of his past, though he was ashamed of it. He was a true friend to me, almost a son. We all have our fears, our hopes. We all have sadnesses to bear, and he knew of mine. And Mary,’ his face lit up, ‘she is of true delicacy, of sensitivity, of depth. She has a beautiful soul.’
‘On that,’ said Alban, ‘we can agree.’
As he looked at the doctor’s face, Alban felt sorry for him. He looked like an old man, his eyes with heavy bags, his face riven with lines of worry. Alban held out Pierre’s book. Taylor looked at it. ‘What is it?’ he said.
Alban continued to hold it out until Taylor took it. He opened it, found the first page and began to read, squinting as Alban held the candle near his face. Alban saw the truth begin to dawn on Taylor’s face. But when he looked up, there was only resignation there. ‘Did he write everything?’ he said. Alban nodded.
‘What do you know?’ said Taylor. He kept his eyes fixed on the book, even as he closed it.
‘I know that Pierre was obsessed with Harriet Chichester,’ said Alban. ‘I know that he never loved Mary. That he intended to be rid of her. And I know he told you that. I also know, though not from this book, that you hold Mary dear to you, almost like a daughter.’
Taylor looked up at him.
‘That is all I know,’ said Alban.
‘I thought he was drunk when he spoke of wanting Mary’s death,’ said Taylor. ‘But he kept returning to it. I did not believe it at first. My friend. He was not a bad man, Mr Steele. He had his head turned. That was all. Only wait, I thought, and it will pass. But on the night he died, he told me he had spoken to the apothecary, that he was willing to put the plan into action.’ He stopped. There were tears in his eyes. ‘My immortal soul,’ he said. ‘I have prayed, but there is no relief. I see what you think, and you are right.’
He was trembling, and he put his head in his hands.
‘What am I right about?’ said Alban. ‘I must hear it from your lips.’ He held the candle steady, watched the doctor wipe his tears away with his large hands.
‘Do you seek to torture me?’ said the doctor.
‘You know me so little,’ said Alban. ‘You may find comfort in facing the truth.’
Dr Taylor nodded.
‘I killed him,’ he said. ‘I did it quickly. One fast slice, across the throat. He never saw me. He never knew it was me.’ He met Alban’s gaze. ‘It is the only thing I am thankful for.’
He closed his eyes, and the tears fell again. Alban leaned forwards, and put his hand on Taylor’s arm. The only noise was the doctor’s ragged in-and-out breaths.
‘Will you tell them?’ he said. ‘I deserve nothing less, I suppose. I did it for the love of him, too, you know. He was a good man, but he angered too quickly. A resentment, once rooted, was impossible to dig up. He always wanted to be known as a gentleman. I always saw him as someone good; good, as Mary was good. I couldn’t let him hurt her. I couldn’t let him hurt himself.’
‘You saved what I love most,’ said Alban. ‘Why would I wish to tell anyone?’
‘And Mary?’
‘She has borne a sense of guilt for it all these past months. She was so convinced of her own wrongdoing that I had even begun to believe her. I will say enough to relieve her mind, but no more. I keep nothing from her, but this. This is not my secret.’ He let the book rest in Taylor’s hand.
Taylor went out into the dawn. He walked home, and went to bed. He was woken early, with the news that Digby, the watchman, had absconded. When he returned from investigating this, he slept most of the day, even as the sun gained heat outside the shutters. Amelia tiptoed around the house, brought him supper, and told him to sleep the night.
When he returned a day later, he found the Renard house shut up, the silver secure in the plate room, and the occupants of it all gone.
EPILOGUE
August, 1799
The stones of the cottage seemed to hold the summer’s heat within them. The sun was just setting; soon it would be completely dark, but for the stars and moon.
In the six years since they had left London, Mary had hardly ever thought of the city. It troubled her a little that the place she had grown up in had such a small hold on her heart; that the threads were so easily broken. Mallory always tutted when she said that, and told her she had always been too sentimental. The place was nothing, she said, it was just another stage set.
Of Mallory’s children only Mattie had stayed in London, learning his trade as a silversmith in the workshop on Foster Lane with Jesse. It was Mattie who had written to his aunt Mary in his careful hand, telling her that Dr Taylor had died, his body found floating in the Thames near Chelsea, a year to the day after the Steeles had left London. Some said he must have lost his footing, but others spoke of how his nature had darkened, and thought he had sought the bottom of the Thames. He had taken to spending his days in the church, was the rumour, and whatever he had found there, it was not enough to save him in the end.
Mallory had just now returned from London. She had gone to see Mattie, tend to her investments, and to visit Francis Dunning’s sister, who had returned to the city and seemed as devoted as ever to the little boy in her care. Her master had died, and the mistress had promised her a handsome pension one day. ‘I think,’ Mallory had said, carefully, ‘she is happy.’
When Mary walked through the house in the evenings, she felt no fear of the shadows. Her grief for Eli was always there, but when she thought of him, as she often did, she could see his face clearly; he no longer turned his back to her. More often than not, he was smiling.
Mary went into the small building next to the cottage, where her husband was working. He made small table wares, did repairs for goldsmiths in nearby Chester, and, occasionally, his own work. He struck his initials on it, and sent his pieces to be assayed at Chester. He did not care, he said, if others overstruck his mark.
‘How will anyone ever know your work, if you hide away here?’ she would chide him.
‘I like the mystery,’ he would say, smiling that same quiet smile that he had always had, half-sadness, half-delight, which had stayed with her throughout the years of her first marriage.
He made parcels of designs: carefully drawn, persistently worked on, packaged up and sent off. The best things, he did not share; he locked them away.
He was drawing tonight, and when she put her hand on his back, he turned and smiled. He drew her to him and put his head against her heart, and she thought, how will they know this? Posterity should remember you, but how will they know you, even when they hold a piece of your silver in their hands?
‘Alban Steele,’ she said. ‘Do you know nothing of time?’
He laughed, and kissed her. ‘I forget it,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in directly.’
‘I’ll check on Edmund,’ she said.
She found their son at his casement window. She normally closed the shutters and tucked him in long before this time. He was kneeling there and looking out. When he saw his mother he looked guilty. ‘The light woke me, Mama,’ he said. She went to him and put her arms around him. She inhaled the smell of his hair and skin: that familiar, mineral-like smell, of newness.
‘It is bright,’ she said. The moon seemed closer tonight.
‘What is it?’ asked Edmund, his face turned up to her, all young babyish curves; it pained her to think how like an angel he looked, with that light on his face.
‘It is the full moon,’ she said, and stroked his hair. ‘It is the full moon, Edmund.’ She wanted to say: people walk abroad by the light of it. They fall in love, they steal, they kill by the light of it. Stay in the house, my boy: never venture out under such a moon. She didn’t say it, of course. She had begun to realize that her success as a mother would depend on learning to stay silent about so much.
She kissed her son, and tucked him in, telling him that the full moon would
watch over him while he slept. He seemed pleased by this, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately. When she went to close the shutters she stared up at the moon as though for the first time. She saw its shadows and its mysteries. She was surprised by it, surprised anew. Because it didn’t look like silver. It didn’t look like silver at all.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am indebted to my agent, Jane Finigan, and the staff at Lutyens & Rubinstein, for championing this book from its earliest stages. I am also immensely grateful to my editor, Clare Hey, and to all at Simon & Schuster for their hard work and enthusiasm.
The Lucy Cavendish College Fiction Competition was an invaluable source of encouragement and I am grateful to everyone who is involved in the competition. I am also indebted to the Trustees of the London Library who granted me Carlyle membership of the Library, allowing me to complete the research for this book.
My colleagues at the Goldsmiths’ Company have provided much encouragement and I am grateful to all of them.
A big thank you to all of the friends who have cheered me on, especially Sian Robinson, Ruth Seward and Samantha Woodward. I am grateful to Luke Schrager for reading the manuscript and discussing eighteenth-century detail with me. All errors are my own.
Finally, huge thanks to my family: my parents; my sister Lisa and her sons Samuel and Harrison; my sister Angela and her family; and above all my husband, without whose love and practical assistance not a page would have been written.
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 32
