Goldsmith's Row (23 page)

"Not entirely. Don't let yourself feel too grateful. Too heavy a burden of gratitude on one side is fatal to any fraternal endeavor. I think we each have a great deal to give the other. I need you here; unless you stay, I shall have to abandon my painting in order to work as a silversmith. You know yourself that the forging and casting of silver plate will always provide the solid foundation of our livelihood. By making jeweled ornaments we can earn a useful profit and a certain measure of fame. But limning—that's very highly thought of, an occupation worthy of a gentleman; unfortunately, like most of the occupations of the gentry, it's remarkably ill-paid. Look at Nick Hilliard—the Queen's limner, with a monopoly for painting her miniatures, and he's never out of debt. I don't want to travel that road. Yet how can I paint and keep shop at the same time, unless I take a partner who's fit to manage the day-to-day work on his own? Your father, as we've said, is too old. Edmund hasn't the skill. Ralph's a better workman than I shall ever be, but he hasn't the schooling or the judgment. I'd never find a craftsman of your quality who was free to take your place-but if you remain as our chief silversmith, while I continue as a painter, then together we can devise such jewels as no one in London has ever seen or dreamed of. You'd have to submit a masterpiece at Goldsmiths' Hall before I could take you into partnership, but you needn't lose any sleep over that. So what do you say? No, don't tell me now. Go away and think it over."

Joel got up, like an obedient child. Philadelphia saw that he was completely dazed by the unexpected prospect before him. She thought he must have been secretly longing to escape from his false position ever since he discovered what sort of a goldsmith Laurence really was. He had certainly made none of his usual aggressive remarks or self-justifying excuses; she could not decide whether this was due to his respect for Laurence or to the softening influence of his unrequited love for Grace. Either way, he had done himself a good turn.

He paused in the doorway, a conflict of emotions in his handsome and sometimes rather sulky face. "I can't thank you enough—Oh! I'm not allowed to be grateful! Very well, sir. I'll go."

When the door was safely shut behind him, Laurence said: "Heaven be praised that he was able to forgive me for forgiving him. I thought I might have trouble with his confounded pride, but I took him by surprise. I hope you approve?"

"Yes, indeed," said Philadelphia, rather astonished to be asked. "I think you have been very generous—if I'm allowed to say so with impunity."

"You are allowed to say anything you choose."

"In that case, I also think it was a little hard on Joel to have his misdeeds dealt with, however mercifully, in front of a third person, and a woman into the bargain. You said you wanted a witness, but I can't see why."

"I would like you to understand all my plans regarding the shop."

"Would you?" she thought this over. "So that I can explain matters to your aunt?"

"It has nothing whatever to do with my aunt!"

"No, I suppose not. She has her jointure, hasn't she?"

Laurence seemed rather put out, and made some rambling remarks about merchants' wives and daughters often knowing a good deal about their families' commercial dealings; he thought it was right that they should.

"I've no doubt of it," agreed Philadelphia, her mind still dwelling on his aunt. "Mrs. Tabor might have been happier with more to occupy her mind."

Laurence looked at her with an expression that was almost dislike, and asked. "Do you always make matters so difficult? Acting as though you'd never had an offer of marriage before?"

"I never have," said Philadelphia, complete frankness being bounced out of her unawares. "Is—is that what you're doing?"

"Yes, it is, and a proper botch I'm making of it," he replied crossly. Something odd seemed to strike him. He paused, "Have you always managed to silence your suitors before they came to the point? You don't mean to live and die a virgin, I hope?"

"I thought I might have to." She had not yet recovered her natural defenses of discretion and reserve. "How many suitors do you think I've had?"

"How can I tell? I know you frightened away several of my friends, and at times you've frightened me. The story's got around that you would never stoop to marry a shopkeeper—but in that case why did you come here at all? A pretty girl with a sufficient dowry can always find a husband of her own station."

"Pretty!" she repeated. "You can spare your breath, I don't have to be flattered into complaisance. If you think the blood of my forefathers is a fair exchange for all you have to offer, we may as well be honest. You can't pretend to admire my—my deformity."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Surely you of all men, a portrait-painter, must find it so hideous, even repulsive…"

She could not go on, but sat staring in front of her, clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap.

"Philadelphia," said Laurence in a voice of incredulity, "are you performing this tragedy because you've got a few pockmarks on your forehead?"

Philadelphia burst into tears.

He crossed the room and sat down beside her on the day-bed, taking hold of both her hands.

"Listen, my dear. You're not suffering from any grave disfigurement. Everyone can see you've had smallpox, which is neither here nor there, except that you won't catch it again. I assure you that those scars don't matter. Your skin has the texture of velvet and the bones beneath are incomparably fine—that's what a painter looks for, didn't you know? As for a lover, that's different again.  No man chooses his mistress simply by looking at her face, didn't you know that either?"

Philadelphia had stopped crying; she gazed at him in speechless hope and wonder. He took her in his arms and kissed her gently on the forehead. He might have been working a charm, in fact the result was equally magical. The blotched and puckered skin remained, but not the far more distorting ravages that were always present in her mind's eye. They vanished instantly, never to return.

Then he kissed her mouth, and she lay back among the cushions of the day-bed; there was a long time while neither of them spoke, until Laurence remarked, "This is better than that confounded tree-stump."

"Our last afternoon at Thurley?" her voice was still husky and uneven. "You weren't preparing to speak of marriage, then?"

"Yes, I was. But you were so fierce, I never plucked up the courage."

"Good heavens, I thought…"

"I expect you thought I was a terrible coxcomb, eaten up with my own conceit," he said ruefully. "It's always so when I feel despised and mortified. I never get any pity, because I immediately become excessively vainglorious and start sharpening
my
wits on everyone within reach. That's what happened when I first arrived home."

"Oh, poor Laurence," she said, paying off all her arrears of compassion. "You did seem to be in a vainglorious mood that day. You assured me that you painted endless portraits of yourself to hand out to your doting admirers."

"Did I? What a stupid clown I am. I tell you what, my girl: as soon as we're married I'll give you a likeness of myself that you'll carry next to your heart and treasure more than all you possess. And that will be a work of singular perfection."

"Very well," she said, smiling. "And how many of these works of singular perfection am I to cherish?"

"Half a dozen at least."

"I thank you, sir. You mean to be a prodigal giver. Are there to be any daughters among the miniature goldsmiths?"

"I'd like to call our eldest daughter Frances, to please my aunt," he said, becoming serious. "Would you be willing, sweetheart, for her to continue living with us? She is
so
attached to you already."

"Of course she must stay here," said Philadelphia warmly. It dawned on her that their children would provide the perfect solace for Mrs. Tabor's loneliness and disappointments.

"What a kind girl you are," said Laurence in a loving voice.

She leant against his shoulder, learning to accept the amazing happiness that had swept over her like a tidal wave. It was surprisingly easy to believe that he loved her, once she had grasped the fact that he did not mind about the scars. Had she been behaving like a mad creature all these years, driving away possible husbands not by her looks, but with her tongue? If so, she was glad. Suppose she had married some dull squire in Gloucestershire, she would never have come to Goldsmiths' Row. She had never seen a man who could hold a candle to Laurence.

Once she'd come to London, however, the fault wasn't all on her side.

"I'm sorry I seem so proud to the people here," she said, "but it's not easy for a woman to know how far she should encourage a man unless he is presented to her as a possible suitor. Your uncle was supposed to find an acceptable match for me, that's what he promised my brother, but I don't believe he ever tried to."

"I'm
afraid
my
uncle failed in his duty towards you. He had his reasons, however."

"Laurence! Do you mean that I was included in his legacy to you, along with Joel? One partner for your shop and another for your bed?"

"Yes, and a delightful windfall I found you, both determined to be my sworn enemies. Now, love, there's no use taking umbrage. You can't back out now, just to spite my uncle's ghost."

"Who said I was backing out? I shall simply demand the right to abuse him as much as I please. He was an abominable old despot. All the troubles we've had in the last six months were largely of his making. Your having to go abroad in the first place, and coming back as though you were a stranger. His treatment of the Downes family, which had such a ruinous effect on Joel. And his unkindness to your poor aunt, not allowing her any news of her grandchild, so that she's lived all these years in a dream. And worst of all, failing to make provision for his daughter's child. Did he mention either of them in his letter?"

"I think he had blotted the matter from his mind. Frances has been dead so many years and as for the boy, I believe the old man did take steps to see that he was properly cared for. I think someone must have given Cicely some money, for she managed to find a husband who was willing to accept the baby as well, and she herself was neither young nor handsome. Francis was happy as a small child, he says both the Perrys were very good to him. It was the misfortune of their dying on the same day, and in a strange place, that landed him in the Charity Hospital. Not the fact that he was born out of wedlock."

"That's true," said Philadelphia reluctantly. She did not like to admit anything that tended to exonerate John Tabor. "I suppose you are certain this time that you've got the rightful claimant?"

"If I hadn't been convinced that evening at Thurley, I should be now. I've been shown some additional evidence."

"Where? At the Charity Hospital?"

"By Coney himself. When we came back to London, I went with him to his lodging, to make his peace with the old Dutchman, who thought, of course, that he'd run away. He was soon satisfied, however, and we had a long conference. He's an excellent fellow, he must have been a stone-carver of high standing in his own country, and now I've seen his work in the church across the street, I feel sure Coney could have no better master. While I was there, the boy showed me a bird he'd carved out of a broken piece of alabaster, and also some drawings he'd made, simply as an exercise. He had designed a monumental tomb supposed to contain the body of some famous mariner. The drawings were marvelously exact, and so was his alabaster cockerel. There's no doubt at all that he's inherited the family touch."

"How strange it is, the way these gifts are transmitted in the blood. Are you sorry that he'll never be a goldsmith?"

"A little. I should have liked to have him as my pupil. When you are a young craftsman, there are so many images spinning in your brain that you can hardly wait to get them out. In time you recognize your own limitations, and it's then you begin to think of teaching someone who will have the ability to go on where you left off. I should have liked to see Coney turn his particular images into silver and gold; after all, it's the stuff we Tabors have worked for three hundred years. But this is a small matter. Coney has no regrets, I fancy he considers the making of jewellery a trivial pastime; cutting stone is the proper occupation for a man. And I've no doubt hell do it very well. He won't make a fortune, but he should earn a fair living, especially if I can introduce him to the right patrons when he's ready to set up on his own. I may also induce him to accept some money from the family, so that he won't have to wait too long before marrying Grace. If they are still set on marriage."

"They will be," said Philadelphia.

"Yes, I think so too."

They drifted into a companionable silence, Philadelphia thought over what he had been saying. She had caught in his voice that elusive note in which a countryman might speak of the land. Laurence felt the same mixture of emotions about the practice of his craft, pride and humility, hard, practical sense, and sheer delight. He was the master and also the servant of the inanimate metal, the innocent parchment. On them he was compelled to make visible the mysterious power that God had put into his head and into his hands. And her sons would take after him.

The sunlight poured across the floor in little segments shaped like the leaded window-panes. They could hear the creak of coaches and wagons trundling over the cobbles, the monotonous yet haunting lilt of the street-criers, the constant tread of footsteps in the street, as the people passed and paused and looked up at the ten tall houses in Goldsmiths' Row.