Goldsmith's Row (13 page)

Grace was standing by the dressing-chest in a ring of candle-light staring at her reflection in a small steel mirror. She turned, startled.

"Joel! You can't come in here! What do you want?"

"To talk with you."

The big blue eyes grew apprehensive. "Is—is anything wrong? Have they found out?"

"No, how could they?"

"Then why…"

"Come over here and 111 tell you."

He perched himself on the edge of the bed she shared with Philadelphia, and coaxed her to sit beside him, while he began to tell her how pretty she was, how seldom he was able to see her alone, how anxious he was to know whether she liked him as much as he liked her.

Grace stood up. "Will you please leave me now, Joel. You know you ought not to have come."

She spoke with a dignity she could not have achieved a few months ago. She had learnt something in Goldsmiths' Row.

Joel got up too. It was no use talking, he'd have to take action. He pulled her into his arms and began to fondle her. There was an impression of soft, warm skin, the scent of rosewater, a drift of hair like stranded silk—and then she turned on him like an infuriated kitten and slapped his face.

He would never have believed it of her.

"You little shrew!" he complained, between annoyance and amusement, rubbing his cheek.

Where had this new spirit come from? Surely she hadn't got herself a lover already? He could not think of any likely candidate; it was true that he had once seen her alone in the street, which had surprised him, but she was only going into a church. Of course she had been brought up uncommonly pious; perhaps that was still a stumbling-block.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said. "I'm not asking you to do anything wrong. There's no sin in wanting to get married, is there?"

"Married? You and me?" She looked thunderstruck.

"Why not?" He smiled. "I think I must have chosen you for my wife the very first instant I saw you in Southwark, caring for the swarm of children. I suppose that's why I took such pains to rescue you from that place."

Grace did not answer at once. Then she said, inconsequently, "Mrs. Tabor would not favor your suit."

He knew that already, but he thought that if Grace wanted the match, she would be able to twist the old woman round her finger. This was his new plan. He must persuade Grace that he was the right husband for her, if possible with love and kindness—he was sure he could accomplish that in the end, only he hadn't got unlimited time. He had another weapon in his hand, and if she was recalcitrant he would have to use that. It was a fair means to an end, considering who and what she was.

"I'm sure Mrs. Tabor would listen to you," he said still hoping that gentler methods would prevail, "if you told her that you would like to marry me."

"But I shouldn't like it at all," retorted Grace with unflattering promptness. "I don't wish to marry you, and what's more, I won't do it!"

Joel felt his temper rising. Perhaps he had started out too complacently, regarding Grace as a lay-figure in his plans, but since he had kissed her mouth, and run his fingers through her moonlight-colored hair—yes, and since he had met the challenge of unexpected resistance—he had discovered some urgent new reasons for marrying her. And here she was, saying she didn't fancy him, the impudent bitch. After all he had done for her; it was intolerable.

"Am I not good enough for you now?" he enquired. "The heiress is holding out for a greater prize? Think again, my dear. No other man, however wealthy, can give you as much as I have given you already—all the benefits of Gold-smiths' Row, poured into the lap of a nameless pauper. Is it so strange that I should wish to share them with you?"

"I—I would rather give up the benefits."

"Oh, would you?" he said, stung by this insult. "Very well, then: we'll put your self-denial to the test. Either you agree to a marriage between us, or I tell Laurence that you are an impostor."

She gave a gasp of fright and backed away from him, not trying to hide her aversion. "You daren't tell Laurence. He'll guess we were in league together, and you'll be punished too."

"No, for I shall tell him that I was completely deceived in you and that I've only just found you out. I shall play the part of injured innocence, and they'll believe every word I say."

This was empty bluster, and he knew it. But Grace's fears of discovery had always been exaggerated, and she was not a very logical thinker. She was now terrified, but even so she made no effort to save herself by giving him the answer he wanted.

This made him furious.

"On your own head be it," he told her angrily. "You may yet find there are worse fates than being married to me. Good grief, when I think how scared you've always been of that fellow Tucker! What do you think they'll do to you in the Bridewell?"

This time he scored a complete victory.

Grace stumbled towards the bed and subsided there, shivering. She looked white and sick, but no longer seemed able to make any protest. She just stared up at him in dull desperation.

He knew that she would do anything he asked her now. And then discovered, to his consternation, that it was no use—he simply could not go on coercing this pitifully defenseless child, not for half a dozen fortunes. Such ambitious schemes seemed perfectly practical, any holiday afternoon, on the apron stage at the Rose Theatre, where corruption, rape and violence flourished in a world of unalloyed ferocity. Real life was different.

He was disgusted to find he was too thin-blooded to emulate all those Roderigos and Gonzagos whose sinister philosophy he had taught himself to admire. Grace had begun to cry in a dreary way which made him feel both ashamed and exasperated.

After a brief hesitation he left her, crept downstairs and out into Cheapside. The street was nearly deserted and pleasantly cool at the end of the long day. He heard the familiar reassurance of the watch, coming from the direction of Lombard Street.

"Half-past nine of the clock and a fine summer's evening, and all's well."

Joel went back to his lodging in Bachelors' Alley, lay awake on his narrow bachelor's bed and gazed at the yellow blur of a lamplit window across the way, considering how he had got himself to such a pass. All was very far from well.

16

It was dinner-time; Mrs. Tabor presided at one end of the oak table, behind a massive pigeon pie, while Laurence, in a cloud of steam at the other end, was carving his way through a joint of boiled salt beef. On one bench sat Mr. Zachary Downes, Ralph and Grace; on the opposite side, Edmund, Joel and Philadelphia. The two apprentices had their dinner with the manservant and maidservants at a lesser table where conversation was not allowed, though they got exactly the same food as their betters—one of Laurence's extravagant innovations; his uncle had never considered it necessary.

Mrs. Tabor liked to look around her household of dutiful hungry people, enjoying the reward of a hard morning's work. She also liked to dwell on the number of fashionable people she saw coming into the shop nowadays. Laurence was a kind and considerate nephew (apart from his refusal to recognize dear Grace as a member of the family, and he had let that matter slide into the background lately). She was proud of his success.

"I hope the Astons are taking note of your customers," she remarked. "The Martins too, and all our other neighbors. There was a coach this morning—I'm sure it was grand enough for a lord."

"A knight's widow merely," said Laurence. "Which is not to be sneezed at. She bought those ear-rings you ad-mired, Aunt—the fire-opal clusters with fancy-cut amethyst drops."

Mrs. Tabor considered this. Glancing down the table, her doting eye found its target.

"Grace must have some ear-rings," she announced. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, my dear? Pearls and crystals would become you, I think. We must get your ears pierced…"

"No, madam! Oh! Please don't make me!" cried Grace with a gasp of horror. She had dropped her knife, which fell on the floor, and sat pressing her hands over the lobes of her ears as though to protect them. They all looked at her in astonishment.

"It doesn't hurt," Mrs. Tabor told her. "Just a prick with a hot needle…"

Grace burst into tears.

"My dear child, no one is going to make you have your ears pierced against your will," said Zachary Downes. "But it is not such a fearful operation, I assure you."

Grace muttered something about being stood in the pillory.

"What on earth do you mean?" asked Philadelphia.

"I suppose she's thinking of that man that was pilloried a while back," volunteered Sam, who had nearly dislocated his neck at the other table, trying to follow what was going on. "That was a rare show! They had this fellow's ears pegged out against the head-board of the pillory, like skins drying in a tanner's yard, and he was bawling and squawking, and the blood spouting all over the place…"

Mrs. Tabor gave a bleat of protest, Grace gulped as though she was going to be sick, and Mr. Zachary told Sam to shut his mouth and get on with his dinner.

Sam grinned. "Can't do both at the same time," he murmured impenitently.

"Stop clowning, Sam," said Laurence in his deceptively casual voice.

"Yes, sir," said Sam, subsiding instantly.

The boys now knew exactly how far they could go with Laurence, and exactly what would happen if they went too far. Which simplified matters for everyone.

Gradually Grace became more composed, Mrs. Tabor having kindly promised her that she need never do anything she didn't like. As soon as the meal was over, she escaped and hurried out of the room.

"Grace, what are you afraid of? No one's going to hurt you," said Joel, who was standing by the door. He put out his hand to try and stop her. His voice was unusually gentle, he looked anxious and concerned, but she pushed past him and rushed upstairs, with Mrs. Tabor clucking after her.

Laurence detained Philadelphia in the parlor. "What do you make of that?"

"I agree with Sam. The sight of that poor wretch in the pillory has been preying on her mind, and no wonder. I used to have nightmares over some of the things I saw when I first came to London."

"Grace grew up in London. Among people who consider themselves able to predict the torments of eternal damnation—you'd think the punishments of this world would seem tame by comparison."

"I suppose you think pauper children ought to have thicker skins than the rest of us?"

"You know I didn't mean that. But I don't believe Grace's display just now was due to ignorance of the harsh world, or a tender heart. That girl's got a guilty conscience."

"How much longer are you going to go on insisting that she's an impostor?"

"I hope very soon to prove it."

"I dare say!" she flashed at him contemptuously. "I'm sure you'll stop at nothing to rid yourself of a rival who stands between you and a great deal of money."

"You were bound to interpret all my actions in terms of money," he said in that agreeable manner which he kept for his most biting remarks. "Filthy lucre! That's the only god a tradesman worships, isn't it? Even if it entails buying false witnesses and perjured evidence—I suppose those are the usual weapons of a man who stops at nothing?"

"I never meant to suggest anything so—so dastardly!" she stammered. "And I know you do care for other things. I can believe that you wish to protect your aunt…"

"Gracious of you!" He brushed aside her protests. "Let me remind you of a few facts, Mrs. Whitethorn. Six years ago I cared so little for money that I threw up my inheritance rather than sacrifice such talent as I possess to the tyranny of an old man who was living in the past. I never thought he'd put me back into his will; I never tried to persuade him. Yet when I came home to claim what was lawfully mine, nearly everyone in this house treated me as though I was a leper. Because I succeeded to my uncle's estate, I must therefore be scheming to get hold of my aunt's as well. Why should I? Don't you know that I can earn as much as I please? I'm a craftsman, I was bred to work for my living, which seems to me an honorable occupation—if I may dare to use such a phrase. But I can hardly hope to convince
you.
We belong to different worlds. It's a mystery to me why you ever came to Cheapside; you can't have expected to find a husband."

Philadelphia was speechless, so astounded by this attack that she had no answer ready. He waited for a moment, as though to give her a chance of hitting back; then he turned and left her.

One of the maids, seeing the coast was clear, came back to pile up the dishes and plates, making a great clatter about it. Philadelphia ignored her, staring out of the window at the neat clumps of marigold in the small, shady garden. Her mind was going round like a weathercock.

A great deal of what Laurence had said made her feel very uncomfortable; she and Joel had certainly got off on the wrong foot with him. That extraordinary composure made him seem selfishly indifferent to the rights of others, and the impression had been strengthened, right from the start, by the way he had flatly refused to consider Grace's claims on his family, even before he had heard the evidence. Perhaps she had misjudged him, just as he had been wrong about her, thinking her too proud for the people she was living with, too much of a fine lady. What could she have done to give him such an idea?

But these riddles were of minor importance. The sting of the whole encounter was in his parting shot, the cruel way he had jeered at her not having a husband. She had spent a year in Goldsmiths' Row without getting a single offer. She was a failure and everyone knew it, an old maid of twenty-two with a hideous blemish; nobody would ever want to marry her. Furious with herself, she blinked back the tears of self-pity.

She was too preoccupied to wonder what exactly was troubling Grace, though she got a hint of this a couple of days later, in the form of a question.

"Is it just you and me and my grandmother that are going to Thurley? No one else?"

"No one else to start with. There are servants at Thurley already, you know, and the maids here have to stay and keep this house running, for the shop will be open all the time we are away. I dare say Mr. Laurence will come down to Thurley; the property belongs to him now. And I believe your grandmother has invited her sister to pay her a visit, and all the Beck daughters and their children. At least we shan't want for company."

"I wondered—will Joel be there?"

"I doubt it."

Was the wind in that quarter? It would be very natural.

"Did you want him to come?" she asked.

"Oh, no! I'm glad he won't—I hate him!"

Philadelphia had to revise her opinion.

"Has he been pestering you?" she enquired. "If so, you must tell me; I don't mind tackling Master Joel, or better still, I'll inform his father…"

"You mustn't do that, you mustn't tell anyone! Del, promise me you won't."

Grace overwhelmed her with urgent and confusing entreaties, protesting that Joel had never attempted any love-making, and unreasonably frightened of what he would do to her if he was accused of such a thing. It was useless to tell her that there was nothing he could do. Grace didn't listen, but just kept on twisting her hands and whispering that she wished people wouldn't meddle.

Philadelphia felt obliged to accept what she said and leave her in peace, but she could not help jumping to one unavoidable conclusion. Joel must have some hold over Grace. As to what sort of a hold it was, the most likely explanation was all too plain. If Grace was a conscious and deliberate impostor, the one person who certainly knew it was Joel.