Goldsmith's Row (17 page)

Grace went over and over the names in her head, and not one of them would do.

It had stopped raining, and after supper she went for a walk in the garden, accompanied by her friend the stable cat. She had come to the conclusion that she herself was the real Frances Tabor.

She had always believed until now that she had been brought up in the Hospital from her infancy, but it was only what other people had told her, she had no definite recollection of where she had spent her earliest years, and of all the possible candidates she herself was the most likely, if only she could slough off the skin of Grace Wilton, who had been in Southwark since she was a baby. Perhaps the real Grace had died and the name had been passed on… She was not greatly interested in working out the details, being far more curious to find out whether she could, in fact, remember anything very early in her Me that did not fit into the pattern of the Charity Hospital.

She dredged as deep as she could, with her eyes tight shut.  At first there was nothing but a series  of familiar images, and then—yes, there had been a flicker of a different scene, very slight and so far back in time that you could not call it a memory; it was rather the consciousness of having once remembered something that had now gone. She was aware of herself, as a child, trying to re-live a journey in a hay wagon. There was some connection with the river and a lot of boats—the strangeness of seeing those boats for the first time, was that it? And the wagon had come from a place called Milstock. She knew this quite suddenly and without question. Joel had told her that Mil-stock in Kent was a village where little Frances had lived with her foster-parents. The place had meant nothing to her then. It was a new, colorless name that failed to evoke the Milstock which had been buried deep in her mind, along with the hay wagon, many years ago.

She was convinced that she had just remembered her arrival in Southwark with her foster-parents when she was five years old.

21

It was oppressively hot in Cheapside, with every hint of a breeze blocked out by the tall houses, and the pervasive market smells of sour milk and rotting vegetables. Joel, sweating in the workshop, found that his mind kept slipping off to Hertfordshire, and not just because he would have liked a sight of leafy trees and clear water. He was always thinking about Grace these days; it was strange how much he missed her about the house—that simple, ignorant little girl whom he had once considered merely as a pawn in his own game. Now he was haunted by the echo of her gentle voice, her wide-eyed, childish delight in anything that was new to an unspoilt mind. He could see her face half-hidden by the shining veil of hair, and remember what it felt like when he held her in his arms. Here he always stopped, miserably ashamed of the way he had treated her. How could he have been such a brute? He longed to be able to tell her he was sorry and to assure her that he would never hurt her in any way—but while she was down at Thurley he had no means of getting in touch with her.

Laurence went down there several times during August and September; unfortunately Laurence was not the best person to ask about Grace.

The two men had little to say to each other; Laurence was always just and punctilious in his dealings with Joel, but he kept an icy distance between them. He was very different with the other journeymen and apprentices; he was giving Sam drawing lessons.

Sam, boylike, was dazzled by his new hero, and quoted his words of wisdom as though no one had ever tried to teach him anything before. This was very natural, and Joel told himself constantly that it was wrong to be jealous of Laurence for taking Sam away from his family. Eventually it dawned on him that he didn't envy Laurence his ascendancy over Sam; he envied Sam the privilege of being Laurence's pupil.

He kept this shocking discovery to himself, and Laurence certainly had no inkling of it. In due course he went away again, not to Thurley this time, but to Bristol.

"Heaven knows what he wanted to go there for," grumbled Mr. Zachary. "All this traipsing around, when he ought to stay at home and nurse the shop—this isn't the way things were done in his uncle's day."

Joel listened with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Fond as he was of his father, he privately acknowledged that the old man was out of his depth these days. Having accepted Laurence as the lawful heir, promoted over his head, he had entirely failed to see what a remarkably gifted craftsman their new master was. He admitted that his jewels were excellently contrived, but did not admire them or believe that they would sell. Even when the shop was full of prosperous and discerning customers, he suspected that they were idle profligates, unable to pay their bills.

"Laurence might at least have given me some warning." Mr. Downes continued his monologue. "There's the coach to be ordered for Thurley…"

"Is Gra—is Mrs. Tabor coming home?"

"Not yet; it's the nieces and their families. Laurence forgot to tell me how many maidservants they have with them, or how much baggage; I don't know whether to order an extra cart or a couple of packhorses; how am I supposed to guess what they will require?"

In spite of these difficulties, the two Beck daughters and their entourage were safely brought back to London, and the morning after they arrived Joan Bradshaw came round to the shop with a letter for Laurence from his aunt. Joel was serving two customers at the time, she gave him a friendly wave in passing, and he strained his ears to hear what she was saying to her brother Edmund.

"She wanted Laurence to know at once… fresh evidence… a rhyme we knew in the nursery… must recognize her as Frank's daughter now."

Fresh evidence? What on earth were they talking about? "Haven't you anything more to show us?" demanded Joel's customer, a provincial worthy, as fat as a bag-pudding, who was spending a lot of money on a gaudy young woman who certainly wasn't his wife.

Joel brought out several more pieces of plate, his attention still tuned to the tantalizing scraps of conversation that came from the other side of the shop.

"Golden apples and silver pears… Uncle William Tabor… Cicely Fox…"

"What's the picture on this dish?" asked the young courtesan.

Joel took a closer look. "It's a Biblical subject, madam." He thought she might not care to be told that it was the Parable of the Wise Virgins. Should he try to sell them that bowl with the engraving of Danae receiving the shower of gold? They were probably too stupid to see the insult. If only they would go away!

At last they did go, and he was able to join Edmund and Joan, who related in chorus the extraordinary story of Grace and  the  family rhyme.

"Strange that this should happen just now," added Edmund.

"Why?"  asked his  sister.

"Because Laurence went to Bristol to look for a witness who he said might settle Grace's pretensions for good. Well, it was meant to be a secret, but I don't suppose it matters now." Edmund picked up Mrs. Tabor's letter. "I'll take care of this, but the chances are my aunt will be seeing Laurence before he ever reads it. I think he means to go straight back to Thurley."

Joel spent the rest of that day in a state of growing alarm. First there was this rhyme of Grace's which had achieved such magical results; he didn't know where she had got hold of it, but he felt sure she would soon be found out. It was a fatal mistake for her to have started producing evidence, she hadn't the guile to carry through such a deception on her own. Far more sinister was the news about Laurence. What sort of a witness could he have gone to find in Bristol? Could he have broken the deadlock which Joel himself had considered insoluble—discovered someone who knew what had happened to the real Frances after the death of her foster-parents at the Rose of York tavern? In that case, the fat really would be in the fire.

He spent an uneasy night, haunted by the thought of that silly little innocent down at Thurley imagining she'd been so clever, and of Laurence going there to confront her. She would have no one to advise or defend her, she would be utterly terrified.

He went to the shop next morning, but could not settle for thinking of Grace. Presently he escaped from the house by way of the workshop, crossed the patch of garden, and opened a small door leading into an alley-way which ran along the back of Goldsmiths' Row between Bread Street and Bow Lane. As he stepped through, he bumped into a hefty, broad-shouldered boy with a thatch of fair hair, who was just coming in.

"What do you want?" asked Joel. It was the servants' entrance, but this boy didn't look like a household servant, he was not delivering or selling anything, nor was he dressed as an apprentice. Hard to say what he was.

"I've come to see Grace. Mrs. Grace Tabor."

"Well, you won't find her; she's in Hertfordshire."

"That's a lie!" said the boy, suddenly belligerent. "She came home yesterday, so don't try to put me off with any of your lies, Master Joel Downes!"

"How do you know my name? And who the devil are you?" He studied the strange boy more closely. "I have it; you must be the young—stone-mason, is it? Her friend from the Charity Hospital. What is it she calls you—Coney?"

"Yes, I'm Coney, and I know she came home yesterday, for I met one of the fellows that went with the coach."

"You are mistaken; it was two of Mrs. Tabor's nieces that returned yesterday. I swear that's the truth," he added, seeing Coney's expression of stubborn mistrust. And then, as an afterthought: "What is it to you, anyway? You've been told to keep away from her."

"The old woman warned me off, yes. I reckon I can take my chance of being caught. But don't think I'm afraid of you, there's nothing you dare do to stop me seeing Grace— when she does come back. I know too much about your plotting with Mrs. Bullace…"

"For heaven's sake, hold your tongue!" Joel glanced round anxiously, but luckily there was no one about, the lane was deserted.

"And all those lies you forced Grace to tell," continued Coney implacably.

"There was no need of force," said Joel, stung. "She was perfectly willing. And from what I hear, she has now taken to inventing stories on her own account."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm told she has started remembering matters that were supposed to be unknown outside the Tabor family." "Do they believe her?"

"Apparently."

"Then she's safe enough," said Coney, coming off his high ethical perch. "It's when people get angry with her that she's liable to break down and confess. She never could withstand unkindness."

"I know," admitted Joel gloomily, "and I fear that her courage may shortly be put to the test."

"So what are you doing about it? Making off while the going's good?"

"No, I am not! I was on my way to the stables, if you must know, to see whether I could hire a horse and ride down to Hertfordshire."

"Will you take me with you?"

"You? No, why should I? There's nothing you can do." There was probably nothing anyone could do. He was going with no set plan, because he had no exact knowledge of the danger. To run away from a threat that didn't exist would be as disastrous as staying to brazen out Laurence's accusations and failing. His real reason for going to Thufley was to stand by Grace, whatever happened, and whether he could protect her or not. It was nothing to do with Coney—though it struck him that Grace needed some other friend besides himself, and he had no right to deprive her of the only one she had.

"Let me come with you," persisted the boy. "I won't be any trouble."

Joel hesitated. "I can't afford to hire a second horse, even if you could ride one, which I'm sure you can't."

"You can take me up behind you. Otherwise I'll walk the whole way."

22

Grace and Philadelphia had persuaded Mrs. Tabor to take a walk in the demesne, so that she could see the improvements that Laurence was going to make that autumn. It was a warm afternoon, which was just as well; walking with Mrs. Tabor was like going on progress with a snail. She enjoyed seeing everything and having it explained to her by Philadelphia, but she was rather short of breath and she suffered with her feet.

As they strolled back to the house, they were surprised to see some strange horses being led off towards the stables, one of them carrying a side-saddle.

"Whoever can have come visiting at such an hour?" wondered Mrs. Tabor.

The steward, hovering in the hall, informed then that his master had arrived, unannounced and bringing a guest with him. It was clear that he was deeply incensed and would have said a lot more, but fortunately Laurence himself came downstairs at the moment to greet them.

"My dear boy!" exclaimed his aunt. "Did you get my letter with the good news about Grace?"

"I've had no letters, madam. Where did you send it?"

"Why, to Cheapside. Joan took it with her when they returned to the City…"

"Ah, but I haven't come from the City. I've been down to the West Country, and I've brought back a guest who's waiting in the gallery to meet you."

He marshaled them skillfully up the staircase, without answering any of Mrs. Tabor's questions.

"Who do you think it can be?" whispered Grace.

Philadelphia shook her head.

When they entered the gallery they saw a woman in a red dress sitting by the chimney-piece at the far end. She got up and came towards them. Grace immediately wondered if Laurence had discovered a rival claimant, another girl pretending to be Frances. She heard Philadelphia catch her breath; perhaps she thought the same.

But the stranger was not a young girl, she was a woman of over thirty, plump and pretty. An amazing thought flashed through Grace's mind. Could this be my mother? Suppose she didn't die, after all?

Only this woman had black hair and brown eyes, and though Mrs. Tabor had given a little cry of astonishment, she was not unduly put out.

"I need not present Mrs. Iredale to you," said Laurence, "for you recognize her, don't you?"

"It's Bess!" exclaimed Mrs. Tabor. "Bess Angell! Oh, my dear, how glad I am to see you again, after so many years."