The Silver Touch (2 page)

Hester, who had been holding her possessions to her all the time like a shield, set them down on the bed and began to untie the knot of the bundle. Curiously, there was hope in her again after weeks of sadness and despair. It was rising to course through her veins in the most strange manner. She had a feeling that however much Martha might seek to suppress and restrain her, the means of shaping her life by her own choice lay waiting for her in this great city.

In the weeks and months that followed she was kept as busy as Martha had predicted, taking a turn at every task within the domestic regions as part of her training to be useful in every sphere. She scrubbed and cleaned and polished, washed up tankards and glasses until sometimes it seemed to her that the whole of London must be imbibing at the Heathcock. Daily she trimmed the candles in their broad-based chambersticks that stood on the hall table for guests to light their way upstairs at night. She made up beds and humped dirty linen down to the wash-house in the walled kitchen yard at the rear of the tavern. Sometimes she spent days there at a stretch, pounding down with a stick, the linen boiling away in the tubs amid steam and suds. The best days were when Martha took her to market. Holding the baskets, which were soon to be filled with purchases, she would stare around her, taking in the sights of the streets, fascinated by the fashions of the richer folk and wishing she could read the pamphlets that were sometimes thrust into her hand.

Reading and writing were skills she had never mastered. Illiteracy was common enough, the charity schools being too few in number to educate all those unable to pay for schooling. Local lessons were sometimes arranged by high-principled men and women, who did their best for the children who attended. She herself had been given such a chance in her village although nothing had come of it. Unlike her fellow pupils, most of whom were far from being as quick-witted as she knew herself to be, she found she confused letters, particularly those that were similar such as
b
and
d
,
p
and
q
and so forth and small words such as
of
,
for
and
from
completely defeated her. As a result she was ridiculed by the grim-faced woman who took the class, called a dunce and had such a sense of shame at her own stupidity instilled into her that at times she vomited behind the church wall when the hateful lessons were over. At home she became wild and difficult, half-mad with frustration, and a climax was reached when one day she ran away and was not found for two days. After that there were no more lessons for her. The teaching dame would not have taken her back in any case. She had found comfort in what she could do, which was to draw, and birds were her favourite subjects.

She missed them and their swooping patterns of flight more than anything else in her new surroundings. There were plenty of sparrows that came to peck in the yard, some blackbirds and a goldfinch or two, but it was the shyer birds that had flown in from the woods and meadows to the cottage garden that had been such a joy to her, featuring in almost every one of her sketches. She thought of them frequently, the corn buntings and the yellow-hammers, the skylarks, lapwings and woodpeckers and the darting blue flash of the kingfishers across a stream that lay at the end of the herb garden. How did her mother’s herb garden look now? Was it already overgrown with weeds or had the new tenant taken care of it? At this point she always shook her head to drive away the homesickness threatening to overtake her, as it still did sometimes in unguarded moments, and got on with whatever chore she had in hand.

Martha had little to complain about in Hester’s work, but her resentment never eased and she found fault constantly out of general irritation. Moreover Hester was growing up. An exuberance of life and a quickness of spirit had remanifested itself in her not long after her arrival at the Heathcock. Sometimes wilful, alarmingly fiery-tempered when roused and frequently exasperating, she was nevertheless always conscientious about the chores she had to do. ‘I’ve finished that task,’ was often a reply from her when asked why she was not washing pots, or folding linen, or cleaning cupboards.

Martha found such youthful vitality increasingly irksome, especially when her back ached and her feet were tired. It was impossible not to notice that Hester was blooming, a new lustre giving highlights to the rich colour of her hair, her brows and lashes darkening while there was an added translucent quality to her alabaster skin. Soon she had grown quite tall and her fuller, softer curves meant the expense of new dresses which suited her, for Jack insisted she be well clad as a young woman should be, with an end to hand-me-downs from Martha’s clothespress. For the first time Martha became conscious of her own years and the lines that paint and powder could no longer hide. A bitter jealousy of the young girl’s charms began to take over from her long-held resentment until it bordered dangerously on hatred.

With restrictions long since lifted on going out alone, Hester had come to know London well, usually on errands for Martha. Much of the oldest part had been redesigned as well as rebuilt over the past decades since the Great Fire, and the city had expanded widely in all directions with beautiful architecture, new long streets, parks and leafy squares. In contrast there remained ancient alleyways and slums where thousands lived in squalor, their misfortunes a shadow across a prosperous land where roast beef was the daily fare of the middle classes and vast fortunes grew on commerce at home and abroad.

There were few highlights in her hard-working existence which was why an exhibition proved to be an event of some magnitude to her. One of the Heathcock’s patrons was a goldsmith named Harwood, a big portly man with a florid complexion and one of the most prosperous master craftsmen in his field in London. He was also a powerful voice in the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, which dated back to the twelfth century and, with strict rules, maintained the rigidly high standard of work in English gold and silver. He was in the habit of inviting fellow master craftsmen and merchants to discuss business matters over dinner at the Heathcock, quite apart from having a tankard of ale on his own in the taproom at quite regular intervals. Now and again he and his wife brought friends to supper there in a private parlour after the theatre and Martha took their orders herself, putting her best waiting-maids to serve them. Recently his daughter, Caroline, his only child and the apple of his eye, had been included in the supper parties when the theatrical entertainment attended beforehand had been deemed suitable for a young girl, her age being no more than Hester’s.

One evening when there was only male company present, and a profitable business deal had gone through over the food and wine, Master Harwood, bloated and flushed from all he had eaten and drunk, issued an invitation to Jack and Martha to attend an exhibition at the Goldsmiths Hall where some of the objects displayed were from his own workshop.

‘I’ve enjoyed the best that you can produce in the good wine and victuals that my guests and I have been served with this evening. Now it is your turn to come and see the best that I can produce, which will surely measure up to your pigeon-and-mushroom pie.’ He laughed heartily at his own joke, which was an indication of the success of the evening and the amount of wine he had drunk, for he was by no means jovial by nature and his face was granite-like and harsh-jawed in repose. But he spent lavishly, never questioned the Needhams’ honesty by querying the bill, and those whom he introduced to the tavern invariably came back to be regular patrons of the Heathcock themselves, spreading its good name still further.

‘You do us much honour, sir.’ Jack bowed low and Martha curtsied. It was expected that those in a lower position should be obsequious, and Jack would have had no qualms about kneeling to polish a patron’s boots if it meant increased trade and money in the coffers. Martha had her limits, but she was highly flattered by the invitation.

‘We shall attend, sir.’ Quite pink in the cheeks and curtsying again.

When the day came she had developed a streaming cold and was unable to venture out. Jack, who had no interest in the exhibition, still felt obliged to go. ‘You can come with me,’ he said to Hester. ‘We needn’t stay long. It’s just so I can say I was there.’

The Goldsmiths Hall was a distinguished building with fine windows, a grand entrance, and crystal chandeliers shining on carved and polished woodwork within. It was to this place that new goldsmiths came after completing their seven years’ apprenticeship to register their individual punchmark, or the ‘touch’ as it was known in the trade, which would identify their work for all time. Once granted the Freedom of the Company, they were able to work for any master or set up on their own and certain privileges went with their position that were denied ordinary craftsmen in what was one of the most aesthetically rewarding trades that any man could follow.

‘Don’t be nervous, lass,’ Jack said to her, thoroughly uncomfortable himself in such a grand setting. Footmen were posted at intervals to bow the visitors through to the great chamber where the gold- and silverware was on display. To add to the magic for Hester everybody present was extremely well dressed, many in silks and brocades. Yet all else paled before the sight that met her when the exhibits came into view. Set on velvet-draped stands, tasselled cords dividing them off by no more than a foot or two from the public, were gold and silver articles of such magnificence that she was captivated instantly by the dazzling spectacle. In contrast to the utensils used at the Heathcock, here everything that could possibly be used at a table or sideboard was fashioned out of the two most beautiful metals in all the world.

‘Hell’s bells!’ Jack exclaimed, struck only by the monetary value of the display. ‘Whatever would this lot be worth then?’

Hester was beyond speech. She had seen beautiful church plate, although never at these close quarters, and there had always been glass between herself and displays in goldsmiths’ shop windows. Here, with plenty of sunshine pouring through the tall windows, neither the gleam nor the radiance could hide the intricate results of superb craftsmanship.

Jack began craning his neck to see where the Harwood exhibits were located, intending to view them briefly and leave again. Hester pulled at his sleeve. ‘Let’s look at everything,’ she implored.

He always wore a fob-watch on a gold chain, and he cupped it in his broad palm to study the time. ‘I can’t stay more than another five minutes. Not with Martha in the state she is and only one barman in the taproom. You may stay as long as you like as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Then let me stay.’

‘Very well then. But don’t let anyone else know I let you have the time off.’ He placed a finger beside his nose and winked to cement their little conspiracy. She knew full well that by ‘anyone’ he meant his wife and she gave a nod of endorsement.

He left her in front of the Harwood display. In the centre of it was the paraphernalia needed for the growing fashion of drinking tea, all of it arranged on a rosewood tray-top table. Since tea was vastly expensive, teapots were small and this one was octagonal in shape, which was quite beautiful. The kettle on its lampstand, from which the lady of the house would pour boiling water on to the tea leaves, was the same unusual shape with an ivory swing handle, its silver sides reflecting the matching jug, slop-basin and sugar-vase. In addition there were spoons on a spoon-tray, a sweetmeat basket and a tea canister, which was in silver gilt with a flower finial and could be locked against servants’ thieving fingers. Hester had tasted tea a few times, for Martha had to cater for guests who could afford it, and she had been allowed to share what was left in the teapot when more hot water had been poured over the leaves. It was a palatable drink and she liked it, although she thought it would taste even better if served from such a handsome octagonal teapot of silver.

Flanking the tea table, which was drawing attention, was a magnificent wine fountain with a high domed lid, the handles mounted on two rampant lions. On the opposite side was a presentation cup and cover in gold, of a size and splendour she thought fit for a Lord Mayor of London at the end of his year’s service to the city.

She wandered from display to display. Everything was here, from tureens to chocolate-pots, candlesticks to huge centre-pieces that would grace some long dining-table, and smaller items such as snuff-boxes, salts, casters and nutmeg graters. When she finally left the exhibition she felt dazed by so much beauty. If she had been a boy she would have followed that marvellous craft. There were women goldsmiths, the work of two having been on display, and it was her guess they were goldsmiths’ daughters, which would have enabled them to take a full apprenticeship within the family circle. Such opportunities did not come the way of ordinary girls like herself.

When she reached the tavern, she went upstairs to her bedroom and took the old silver thimble out of her sewing-box to view it in a new light. She was filled with pride that she owned something in the precious metal that had been displayed in such splendour at the Goldsmiths Hall.

On her sixteenth natal day Hester was allowed in the taproom to serve at the tables for the first time; Martha was vehemently against it, but Jack insisted, knowing the effect that a pretty face could have upon a gathering. ‘She’s old enough to know her way about and nobody would dare put a hand on her in my presence.’

To Martha’s anger it had happened out of his presence, although he chose to forget the trouble it caused. Once, in the private rooms, Hester had punched a travelling gentleman in the eye, and on another occasion had kicked an alderman. Both occasions had caused an uproar, with Jack acting like a madman and throwing the men out on the cobbles for having made unwarranted advances to his half-sister. Why could he not see that those laughing grey eyes, narrow waist and the tantalizing grace of a candle flame would always be a natural invitation to the opposite sex? Martha felt strongly that he should try to make her responsibility for Hester lighter instead of heavier, for it was still her particular cross to protect his precious relative from harm. She had never been one to shirk a duty once it was laid upon her and it was galling to her that her untroubled husband knew that only too well.