The Silver Touch (24 page)

‘Fetch a mug of water for your father, Letticia,’ she instructed. ‘Put the ladder away, Tom. There’s nothing more you can do now and thank you for coming. I’m sure you saved both my husband and son from terrible injuries. I don’t think Ann and I could have held the ladder a second longer.’

‘All’s well that ends well,’ he mumbled, embarrassed by her thanks, and swung the ladder down.

Hester hovered at a short distance from John, knowing there was nothing worse than to feel closed in when in desperate need of air. Letticia returned with the water just as he began to draw breath and Hester snatched it from her to run forward and hold it to his lips. He took a drink gratefully and then straightened up, releasing a ragged sigh.

‘That’s about the worst attack of coughing I’ve ever had. It must have been caused by that jolt going through my whole body when William fell. Is he all right? Not too frightened by it all now?’

‘Knowing William,’ she replied crisply, ‘he is probably boasting to Ann that he all but completed his dare after all.’ She paused, seeing that a maid had come from the house. ‘Yes? What is it?’

‘There’s a gentleman called to see the master.’

John groaned. ‘That will be Richard Clarke, the jeweller and goldsmith from King Street. He’s come about an order for watch-chains, but I can’t see him in this state.’

Everything that was business-like in Hester came to the fore. She turned to Letticia. ‘Wait on him. Serve him tea and don’t let him leave. He’s a new contact and we don’t want to lose him.’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Letticia hurried into the house. Hester and John followed at a slower pace, she afraid that any speedy exertion might set off his coughing again. Drops of blood marked their passage indoors and along the flagstones to her storeroom where she kept her herbal remedies. There she bathed his raw hands in a lotion of calendula, suffering with him the pain he was enduring in silence. Afterwards she bound the cleaned flesh in strips of white linen and hoped that no festering would occur. His hands would take long enough to heal as they were without additional complications.

‘It’s as well that we have Joss to share the workload with me until you are able to return to your bench,’ she said reassuringly, snipping short the ends of the linen ties to make the bandaging neater.

He appreciated her voicing the thought about Joss’s presence that had been uppermost in his mind. ‘I think we’ll find that he will run the workshop well. I’ll be ready with advice if he should ask for it, but it will do no harm to let him shoulder some responsibility, because he is well suited for it.’

She looked down as she rolled up assiduously the surplus strips of linen in the basket on her lap. It would be good experience for Joss, even though he could expect to be at least forty-three, the age that his father was now, before John’s retirement gave him control of the workshop. Abruptly she lifted her head, for until this moment she had not allowed herself to consider that she might have lost John if he had been thrown from that whipping ladder. Injuries she had faced, but not a fatal result. It would have been beyond her human capacity to bear such a loss if it had come about. The simple truth was that she could not live without him. He was her heart, her life blood, her reason for being on this earth. She had known it from first loving him and the passing years of marriage had only proved that passion.

John saw the whole of her beautiful face reflect the delayed reaction to shock that was taking hold of her, her grey eyes deepening to ebony as the pupils expanded, a tremor running along the line of her generous mouth. Unable to touch her with his hands, he reached out and rested his wrists on her shoulders where she sat opposite him and by exerting gentle pressure caused her to lean towards him. Guessing her thoughts, he kissed tenderly her quivering lids that were keeping back tears, her brow, her cheeks and then her lips. As her mouth opened to his, she slid from the chair to her knees, the basket of linen rolling away, and clung to him like a drowning woman throughout the long, loving kiss they exchanged.

In the parlour, Letticia was holding Richard Clarke’s attention. When she first entered the room he had been standing with his back to her, looking out of the window at Bunhill Row, a tallish man of good bearing with his dark brown hair unpowdered and caught back in a tie-ribbon. He, hearing the door open, assumed it was her father who had entered and spoke with his glance still lingering in the direction of the Esdaile mansion even as he turned.

‘Your neighbours have not moved in yet, I see, Mr Bateman. It should not be long now before —’

‘Are they coming then?’

Her exclamation snapped his gaze towards her. There was a moment of mutual surprise. He was younger than she had anticipated, no more than twenty-six or -seven at the most, with a lean, austere face, a fine prominent nose and an attractive, thin-lipped mouth. He, in his turn, saw a girl of remarkable beauty, her head tilted in fascinated query as she awaited his reply: pale coppery hair framing a heart-shaped face, such lambent lights in her huge blue eyes that even her long lashes seemed to shine from them. He found his voice.

‘So I have heard. Are you Miss Bateman?’

‘I am, Mr Clarke. Are you acquainted with the Esdailes?’

‘I know Mr Esdaile well on a social and business level. And you?’

‘I haven’t met him yet. Naturally there is neighbourhood interest in the house. We can’t think why so much has been done to it and still it stands empty.’

‘I believe the second Mrs Esdaile would have preferred to have had a country house built especially for her instead of having one renovated.’

‘So that is the stumbling block!’ She was in sympathy with the second wife. What woman would want a house stuck to the side of an old ale-house when a new country seat could have been hers? She was about to say as much when he took another glance out of the window in the mansion’s direction.

‘For myself, I’d make that place my first choice any day.’

‘Because of its easy access to the ale-house?’ she asked, tongue in cheek.

He burst out laughing, looking back at her. ‘No, not at all. The mansion has character and a mellow look to it that I admire.’

‘In that case, if ale is not your preference, I’m sure you will take a cup of tea with me while we wait for my father to join us after a slight delay.’

He glanced at the clock. ‘That is most kind, but is Mr Bateman not here? I have to get back to the city by —’

She interrupted him quickly. ‘My father is in the house but there has been a little accident.’ With a graceful gesture she indicated that he should take a seat opposite her as she settled herself on the sofa.

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ he enquired.

All that was sensual in her noted the way his coat-tails swung out from his narrow hips as he seated himself and the play of hard muscle in thigh and calf. Her colour rose under his penetrating gaze as if he had been able to read her wanton thoughts. There were baffling times, coming upon her more and more, when her whole body ached with a hunger of its own that she could neither assuage nor identify. Every look from this man’s dark eyes sent fire into her and almost made it difficult to breathe. She linked her fingers and let them rise and fall once in her lap.

‘Dire results were averted in the nick of time, I’m thankful to say. I’ll tell you all about it over tea.’

To her relief it arrived at that moment, one maid bearing the teatray and the other carrying the trestle tea-table which was set up in front of her. She noted that everything was there: the kettle on its lamp, the teapot, the tea-caddy as a canister was now called, the cream jug, the sugar-vase and its tongs together with the cups and saucers. None of it was silver, not even the tongs, and although the china was pretty and the kettle a well-polished copper, she experienced a bitter resentment, never more keenly than today, that while an abundance of handsome pieces passed through the workshop nothing in silver or gold ever reached the family table. Her mother’s spoon was the only exception. She knew it had been made by her father as a birth gift after Peter was born; it was used by nobody else. She wished she could have borrowed it today for Mr Clarke’s saucer for everything about him, from the silver buttons on his coat to the gold fob-watch on his waistcoat and the diamond ring on his finger, denoted a prosperous background.

Taking from her pocket the little key she had collected on her way to the parlour, she unlocked the tea-caddy and spooned the required amount of tea into the pot. Then, as she took hold of the handle of the kettle to pour on the steaming water, she winced and put it back on the lamp again to examine her hand.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked her, leaning forward. ‘Did you burn yourself?’

She shook her head. ‘I have a splinter in my palm. Quite a large one.’

‘Let me see.’ He sprang up to take her hand in his and bend over it. ‘That should be easy to get out. Come across to the window.’

She went with him to the light. Again he bent close to her, his long, capable fingers gently pressing the end of the splinter until he could get a grip on it. The clean, male smell of him filled her nostrils, making them flare delicately, and her gaze roved over his hair, his profile intent with concentration on his task and the breadth of his shoulders. There was such a strange rise of feeling in her that she could visualize his firm flesh beneath the covering of his pristine linen and the smooth cloth of his well-tailored coat.

‘Oh!’ She experienced a sharp pain as the splinter was jerked from her palm. A globule of blood leaped up bright as a ruby before he pressed the place with his thumb, turning his head to look quizzically into her eyes.

‘Where on earth did you get a splinter that size?’

‘From a ladder.’

He laughed softly, his gaze still deep in hers. ‘What on earth were you doing climbing a ladder?’

‘I wasn’t on one. I was holding it for my father. You see, my brother was stuck on the stable roof ...’

It seemed to her that from that moment everything took a new and subtle turn, she talking and he questioning and then both of them laughing together before getting into easy conversation again. He bound her hand across with his clean handkerchief, which he said he would call for at some later date that was convenient to her; there was no suggestion from either of them that a servant could easily collect or deliver. Over tea she encouraged him to tell her about his business, interested to hear how many journeymen he employed and to gain some idea of the extent of his range in the world of goldsmithing. In any case, as she knew well, nothing pleased a man more than to be encouraged to talk about himself.

‘Your father and I follow the same craft in all but name,’ he commented.

She was puzzled. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you. Where is the difference?’

‘I meant that it’s becoming the fashion to divide goldsmiths into two categories. Those who specialize in silver — and I believe that is the metal most used in Mr Bateman’s workshop — are becoming known as silversmiths while those, such as myself, who work mostly in gold, are retaining the title of goldsmiths. It’s one of those follies created by laymen who fail to realize that the training is one and the same.’

‘Oh, that!’ She gave her head a little toss of comprehension. ‘My father said something along the same lines the other day.’ Tauntingly she raised her arched eyebrows at him. ‘We’re not out of touch with all that comes new in the city even though officially we reside in the county of Middlesex.’

He acknowledged her mockery with a grin and answered with gallantry: ‘I can tell that by your style, Miss Bateman.’

It was easy to see that she found his answer satisfactory. He was being thoroughly entertained by her. It was rare for him to be in such a light-hearted mood, which was due entirely to her, for he was of a sober disposition, dedicated to work and still greater achievements.

Shortly after completing his apprenticeship, he had shouldered the heavy burden of an inherited business deep in debt and going downhill fast, a situation he had reversed completely by working all hours of the day and night himself as well as bringing in new and advanced. ideas. Since then he had not looked back and was beginning to enjoy his success while keeping a tight control on the business reins. Nothing left his shop or his workshop without his scrutiny, however simple the piece.

In his personal life he was long overdue for marriage and knew it. Until today there had been only minor diversions, and although as yet he had no defined attitude towards Letticia, gripped merely by the initial spell of violent attraction, there lurked at the back of his mind the conviction that he was going to pursue this new acquaintance relentlessly. She was pouring him a cup of tea and he was describing some of the jewellery presently being made in his workshop when her father arrived, his hands bound up like a pugilist’s mitts. Richard stood up at once.

‘I was most sorry to hear about your injuries, Mr Bateman.’

‘They will soon heal. I apologize for keeping you waiting.’

‘It has been an enjoyable interlude in your daughter’s company.’

Letticia displayed her wrapped hand. ‘You and I are both in the wars, Father. Mr Clarke extracted a splinter for me.’ Then she rose from the sofa, shaking out her flowery cotton skirt, and made a graceful move towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you both to talk business.’ She smiled back at Richard in a certain manner that was never without effect on any man at whom it was directed. ‘Good day to you.’