The Silver Touch (35 page)

Hester had received somewhat cynically Letticia’s first mention of an improvement in Will. She did not expect it to last but some while later, when Richard said to her that he could no longer fault her son in any way, she shook her head in wonderment.

‘So he has become a man of responsibility at last. I could not be better pleased, but what has brought about this change in him, do you think?’

Richard shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. ‘The result and not the reason is enough for me.’

To Letticia, she said, ‘In my experience it’s usually only a girl who can work miracles on a lad like William. I know him. He is probably in love for the first time. I hope and pray it endures long enough to set the mould for the rest of his life.’

It struck Letticia that Hester, although she never interfered, had a curious insight into all their lives. Nothing ever slipped past her. Not for the first time Letticia considered her mother to be an exceptional woman in many ways. But she and Richard had not come to Bunhill Row that day to talk mainly of William. Elizabeth had become pregnant and Letticia, knowing their financial circumstances depended on Peter’s wages, had brought a large boxful of exquisitely made garments for the forthcoming infant, her own children having grown out of them.

‘I’ve never seen anything so pretty,’ Elizabeth exclaimed, taking out the little lace caps, the tucked and embroidered gowns and the fine shawls. There was even a pile of trim dresses that small boys wore until they were breeched which pleased her as much as the rest. ‘These will be most useful. Of course if we have a girl they’ll just be saved for next time.’

She hoped for a boy, for she knew that Peter was like most men in wanting their first-born to be a son and she loved to please him in all things. Since their marriage she had experienced a love such as came to one woman in a million and she found it hard to believe there was a man anywhere to compare with her adored and adoring Peter.

Letticia always found herself slightly irritated in their joint presence. They were both reticent people who did not in any way flaunt their deep feelings for each other, but the loving bond was there, emanating from them in a kind of ray that lit up the cracks in her own marriage. It had never been the same between Richard and herself as it was between these two and although she had everything she had ever wanted in a material sense, she and Richard had lapsed into a dullness of matrimony that she feared he enlivened with passing affairs of his own.

She was bitterly ashamed of any jealousy she had felt towards Peter and his wife when early one cold morning Joss arrived while she and Richard were still at breakfast. Fully expecting to hear the good news of the baby’s birth, she rose from the table to meet him. Her smile faded immediately at the sight of his drawn expression.

‘Elizabeth is dying. The baby — a boy — was stillborn.’

‘I’ll come at once,’ she said faintly, stricken by what she had heard.

By the time they reached Bunhill Row Elizabeth was dead and Peter had locked himself into the room with her. Hester refused to allow anyone to try to persuade him to come out.

‘He has to be there on his own with her for a while. Leave him. He has never denied her anything and he will not keep her from what has to be done.’

They all looked askance at her, but she retained her dominance. Did she not know better than any of them what it meant to lose a perfect love? The only way Peter would find courage to go on was from Elizabeth herself, albeit her soul had flown. Wanting to ensure his privacy, she sent everyone back to Number 107 and remained on her own at her son’s home, closing doors and sitting on a bench outside the kitchen door to let the sounds of his terrible grief stay with him alone.

All day she suffered his torment with him, shedding her own tears. At dusk, as she had expected, he came downstairs. The straightness of his shoulders seemed more poignant to her than his ravaged face.

‘I’m going to see Elizabeth’s mother,’ he said quietly. ‘The poor woman collapsed, didn’t she?’

‘It will comfort her and her husband to see you.’

His leaving the house was a signal for Letticia to reappear with Ann and Alice. Hester was already on her sad way upstairs. She did not have to be told that there would be nothing more in Peter’s life than work from now on.

St Luke’s was packed for the funeral. William knew that Sarah would be there, but sorrow over the occasion kept him from looking for her. It was not until the family mourners had gathered back at Peter’s home for tea and refreshment that he was able to spot her. She was with the Thornes and avoided his gaze, either out of fear of their noticing or displeasure with him, for it was a month since he had seen her. Then their evening had not been of the best, both of them quarrelsome, and she had roused his passion until they had made love while still fighting and, glorious though it had been, they had somehow parted in renewed animosity.

As so often happened in the interim of their meetings, she had the pinched brow-beaten look that came from excess harassment by her guardians and he longed to kiss it away. Through a stroke of ill luck, about which she knew nothing yet, going home after their last meeting he had been set upon by footpads, a common hazard in the city streets. Although he had used his powerful fists to fight them off, giving them a taste of their own medicine, he had received a clout on the side of his face from a club that had given him a black eye and a cut cheek. It had led to some close questioning by Richard, who assumed he had been in a tavern brawl; rather than let the slightest suspicion of the truth arise, he had admitted to the accusation, which was why the normal Saturday freedom had been denied him.

As the mourners were encouraged to help themselves from a table of food and accept a cup of tea, William took one and handed it to Sarah, who still refused to look at him, her lashes lowered.

‘Go away!’ she hissed in panic-stricken fury as he sat down on the vacant chair beside her.

‘Your guardians are talking on the other side of the room. Don’t be angry. I’ve been under curfew.’ He pushed a folded letter into the drawstring purse that dangled from her wrist. ‘That will explain everything.’

He then left her, giving up his seat to someone else, and put distance between them as a precaution. Her relief that all was well again set up such a trembling reaction that her cup began to dance on its saucer. Quickly she lifted it to gulp the hot tea and steady her nerves. She loved him obsessively. It was as if all the love in her, which had been crushed down over the years to the point where twice she had been almost extinguished, had risen up and engulfed her at their first union and left her mad for him. Her threats, her teasing and her frequent rages came from an inner part of her nature that she could not control. In the same way she could not voice what he wanted to hear; it was as if she crouched defensively inside herself, terrified to mention her loving in case it evaporated as everything else she had loved had gone from her in early childhood.

These four past Saturdays she had thought she would lose her mind as she waited in the darkness and he did not come. She had thrown her arms over her head and rocked and wept as if demented, believing that he was staying away to punish her, adding to her life of punishments. Yet not once did she doubt he would return to her eventually. She had absorbed him into herself until he was the blood in her veins and the flesh on her bones and the pulse of her heart. Nothing could sever them.

‘More tea, Sarah?’

She looked up to see Jonathan holding out his hand for her empty cup. ‘No thank you,’ she answered, rising from her chair. It was time she rejoined her guardians. Several times her aunt had glanced across at her.

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen you,’ he said, taking her cup and putting it aside. ‘Now that I’m in London I’m out of touch with this neighbourhood. Are you well?’

It was obvious he wanted to talk and she was willing to linger for a few minutes. She liked him, associating him mainly with the pleasure of her first meeting with William since it was he who had brought her the message to meet in the orchard. At seventeen he had gained the male Bateman length of limb combined with a virile leanness that she was more aware of than she would have been before her innocence was shattered. He did not have the open looks of his brothers, but the narrow eyes, long well-shaped nose and sensual, mobile lips were attractive in a foxy way.

‘I am,’ she replied. It was not strictly true. Pining for William had played havoc with her whole constitution. ‘How are you progressing with your apprenticeship?’

He was doing well and chose to boast a little to her, not only of his standard of work but of his worldly knowledge of London. Not for him the low taverns and stews patronized by the average apprentice. He chose to save his wages for one glass of wine or a light meal in elegant surroundings and to visit the art galleries, the museums and the historical sites. She was impressed.

‘How do you spend your time?’ he asked as an opening for what he intended to say next. It amused him that he was the only one to suspect that it was she whom William met on Saturday nights, for he had followed his brother once to a hiring stable and seen him ride off on a nag. Further observations had all added up.

‘I have a lot of writing to do for my uncle in connection with his religious work,’ she replied, thinking how dull it sounded.

‘Then it must be a great relief to have my brother’s good company to look forward to at the end of the week.’

She gasped and looked around frantically, but he had spoken quietly and none had overheard. ‘How long have you known?’

‘For months. Don’t worry. I wish you both well. You have nothing to fear from me.’

She nodded her gratitude, moving away from him to reach her aunt’s side. Sorrow, joy and fright had combined in a single afternoon and she felt exhausted by it all.

Yet there was a further ordeal to come. As she arrived home with her guardians she was told to go to the study. Her aunt led the way and her uncle followed, closing the door after them.

‘Now, Sarah,’ Mrs Thorne said icily, pulling off her black gloves by the fingers, ‘you will read aloud to us the communication that William Bateman passed to you this afternoon. If you refuse,’ she added, seeing how the alarmed girl clutched her purse defensively to her, ‘we shall take it from you, read it for ourselves and double your punishment for allowing such a liberty from that notorious young rakehell.’

With her mind racing, Sarah took the folded letter from her purse as if obeying them. Immediately, with a sudden movement of her shaking hands, she ripped the letter in half and was about to tear it into smaller pieces when her aunt gave a screech and seized the papers from her. Sarah rushed forward to grab her arm and grapple with her.

‘No, you don’t!’ Mr Thorne roared, yanking her away from behind and holding her fast. The sudden jerk sent her purse, already opened, flying from her hand and the key to the garden gate clattered on to the floor.

Mr Thorne pushed Sarah down into a chair, picked up the key, then taking the torn letter from his wife he carefully pieced the papers together. He proceeded to read it aloud:

‘“My darling Sarah”’ he began in a deepening note of disbelief. ‘“I have missed you with my heart and body more than words can say ...”’

Sarah covered her face with her hands, curling up in the chair as if she were being knifed. William’s loving terms were poisoned by the salacious undertone that crept into her uncle’s voice. The letter made it clear to both her guardians that the meeting planned for Saturday evening followed a pattern of many others shared previously. When her uncle came to the end of the letter he and his wife turned their heads simultaneously to stare dumbfoundedly at their niece. Her sins went far beyond anything they had expected to find when they had begun their investigation and they had no doubt the key opened an entrance to the place of assignation. They were momentarily at a loss to know how to destroy the evil in their midst.

When they had banished her to her room they sat down for a counsel of war. There was no fear of Sarah getting out again, for Mr Thorne had nailed up the shutters of her bedchamber and locked her in. He was all for making a full complaint to William’s master, but his wife slapped her pigmented hand down on the table to emphasize the folly of such a move.

‘Scandal must be avoided at all costs. Think of your position as a Dissenter and the need to hold up our heads against constant opposition from the old Church. Not a word of this must leak out to harm our cause and pour ridicule on us. Sarah shall write to her seducer a letter saying that it is all over between them. The tone of his showed that he was trying to win her back to him after a lovers’ tiff and he will think he has failed.’

‘What if he talks?’

‘Nonsense!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not going to risk his future by blabbing when the matter is closed.’

They had to beat her and half starve her before she finally wrote at Mrs Thorne’s dictation. She hoped that William would grasp that she was writing it under pressure and know that somehow she would see him again. After her aunt had sealed the letter and taken it away, she crawled into a corner of her bedchamber and sat huddled there with her forehead on her drawn-up knees, not knowing or caring whether it was night or day.

Thirteen

Producing articles bearing her own punchmark had brought the assay officers down on Hester at unexpected moments. It was their duty to weigh, test and otherwise check that articles were being produced up to the high standard demanded by the Assay Office. Since she was honest in all her dealings, their deliberately unannounced visits did not bother her apart from some interruption of work. She was on the circuit of two assay officers, one as pleasant as the other was sour.

Mr Cockerill was the name of the man she and everyone else liked, a childless widower in his early fifties whose strong jaw showed that he could be ruthless with those who abused the splendour of the gold and silver that they handled. He had grim tales of those who substituted baser metals in the making and the cheats who put their punchmark over those of other craftsmen whose products were pure and better than their own.

‘A most enjoyable visit, Mrs Bateman,’ he always said before he left. Then he would thank Ann for the delicious tea she had served him. His fellow assay officer never received tea and there was always a sigh of relief when he went. Hester, always busy in the workshop, was never present when Mr Cockerill was poured his refreshing cup from the full silver tea service that she had been able to afford to make for herself at last. It took quite a time before she happened to discover that Ann always used the best porcelain for him as well. Gradually it became noticeable to her that after his visits Ann’s tight-mouthed countenance took on a gentler look. But as time went on and they never met away from the teacups, Hester came to the conclusion that there was nothing more than friendship between them.

The facilities of the workshop purchased around the time of Peter’s marriage were ideal for the amount of commissions being received. Trade orders had also increased as Hester’s skills became generally accepted. Silver traders had begun supplying sheet silver as well as ingots, and these speeded up many spheres of work by doing away with hours of preparation involving hammering, beating and tapping to a smoothness before marking out could begin.

An apprentice had joined the workshop a while ago, a willing lad addressed as Linney, and there was every indication that he would stay on with the Bateman workshop when qualified. ‘There must be something magnetic about this place,’ Hester remarked with a smile.

Linney’s artistic talents were put to another use when he painted a new trade sign that Peter had made for her. It was to be suspended over the entrance of Number 108 to replace John Bateman’s old sign, which had stood by the side gate of Number 107 until Hester had moved it to her expanded premises. It had become outdated long ago with regard to the work she was now taking in.

‘The new sign is ready, Mrs Bateman,’ Linney informed her one morning. Outside Peter was hammering in the last nails that would keep it securely in place. He descended the ladder as she went out to look up at the sign, her hands on her hips, the wind billowing her apron and flapping the ties of her cap.

‘It’s splendid,’ she declared with a catch in her voice, for all along she had been reluctant to replace John’s sign. But the day had had to come. This new sign showed one of her elegant coffee-pots, skilfully painted highlights giving it the full look of silver, and above it lettering she knew to be
Hester
Bateman
,
Silversmith
. In choosing to announce herself as a specialist in silver-work she was following the new trend and since her mind was always darting ahead as far as business was concerned, she was prepared to fly in the face of traditionalists now and at any other time. Sometimes she wondered if this trait in her of being willing to take a chance was the same characteristic as had multiplied itself in William before life had finally tamed him.

A clop of hooves on the road took her gaze from the new sign and she saw that Mr Cockerill had come on one of his visits. They greeted each other and when he had dismounted and tied up his horse, they went into Number 108 together.

‘I shall not be coming on an inspection visit after today, Mrs Bateman,’ he said in the hallway. ‘I have been given a new circuit in York, the city of my birth to which I have always wanted to return. I should like to talk to you about it, if I may.’

‘By all means.’ She took him into Peter’s office which had been set up there. Peter had taken over the running of the business from Joss to leave him more time for his family, an arrangement that suited both brothers well. ‘We are going to miss you, Mr Cockerill.’

He sat forward on the edge of his chair. ‘Not altogether, I hope, ma’am. I am requesting your permission to ask for the hand of your daughter, Ann, in marriage. I know there is a wide gap between her age and mine, but we share literary and other interests and I have reason to believe she reciprocates my sincere affection for her.’

Hester responded with pleasure. It would be odd to have a son-in-law almost her own age, but he had shown himself to be a kindly man and she was thankful that love had come into her daughter’s life. ‘You have my permission. Ann is in the house now.’

They returned together shortly afterwards, Ann looking happier than Hester could remember. This time everyone stopped work to go into the house and drink a celebratory cup of tea in the parlour with the newly betrothed couple. ‘Strange,’ thought Hester, ‘this parlour has been the sole realm of their courtship.’

The wedding took place a month later. It was a quiet affair as both Dick Cockerill and Ann wished it to be, only her family and a few of his friends present. Ann wore iris blue, the colour that suited her best, and when the time came for her to leave she and Hester embraced, each momentarily at a loss for words. Since John’s death they had drawn still closer together and would miss each other keenly, the distance to York being too far for frequent visits.

‘All happiness to you, dearest Ann,’ Hester said as they drew apart.

‘Thank you, Mother.’ With a final wave to all gathered on the steps of Number 107, Ann preceded her husband into the carriage and they drove away.

When the day was over and everyone had departed, Hester felt the emptiness of the house for the first time. There were servants in the kitchen, but none of her own any more under her roof. She braced her shoulders, aware it was a day that every parent had to face and she was more fortunate than most in having two of her sons in nearby houses, quite apart from three dear grandchildren who had inherited Joss’s good nature. Suddenly tired after the events of the day, she went to bed.

The Bateman family had another cause for celebration when the hated sixpenny tax was removed from silver. It would stimulate trade and do much to counteract the increasing popularity of Sheffield Plate. Hester gave a party and several friends in the goldsmithing trade were included.

When it was over Hester settled to routine again. Peter began to come more often to the house in the evenings as if the loneliness of his own home had begun to be oppressive. Previously he had wanted solitude, finding healing in being alone with his memories. Hester usually sat sketching out new designs in the candlelight, for it was a relaxation for her and never a chore, while he lounged back smoking his long-stemmed pipe and they talked when each had something to say.

Peter was spending a Saturday evening with her when she completed a new design that gave her a rare satisfaction. She showed it to him from where she sat and he leaped up immediately to lean over her and study it on the table. ‘That’s one of the best you’ve ever done! It’s like a flight of birds.’

‘They’ve often been a source of inspiration to me and recently I’ve been trying more than ever to capture the flow of movement in a bird on the wing.’

‘You’ve achieved it here.’

The design combined her characteristic simplicity of form with lovely sweeping lines. It was for a kidney-shaped snuffer-tray that would be hand-pierced with a bead mount surmounting the gallery that had symbolized birds between the railings.

‘I’m glad you like it.’ It meant much to her that he had recognized immediately that she had reached the ultimate stage in her designs. From now on she would be on the solid ground for which she had aimed for a long time. After this night there should be no looking back.

Excitement was still in her after he had left and she went upstairs to her bedchamber. Feeling a trifle flushed, she crossed to the window and opened it for some cool night air. It was noisy across at the Royal Oak as it always was on a Saturday night when travellers and local folk became merry together and soldiers from the armoury swelled the numbers in their scarlet coats. She listened for a while, never minding the bursts of raucous singing that often spilled into the road as people wended their way homewards, for these were the sounds she had known in her girlhood when Jack and Martha had kept the Heathcock, long before the days of their retirement.

From the copse, William glimpsed his mother in the moonlight as her hand, cuffed by the white lace of her pale gown, withdrew from pushing wide the latticed window. He stepped back still further into the shadows, although there was not the least chance of her seeing him, and darted away to the side gate of the Esdaile property. He had long since given up entering the mansion by the front entrance, for with the grounds being kept in trim again the chance of being seen from the main gates was doubled in moonlight as bright as on this night. Instead he had made a key for the rear door that gave access to the lawns and in the corridor within he could watch through a glass panel for Sarah’s coming.

As he reached the door, key in hand, he saw a letter wedged into it. Drawing it out, he guessed with a sickening lurch of disappointment that Sarah was unable to keep their tryst. Yet she must have been here only minutes before for she would not have risked the letter being there for any length of time. Not bothering to go indoors, he sat down on the doorstep and opening the shutter of his lantern focused its beam on to the letter the better to see what was written there.

His face became stark as her words informed him that all was over between them. The weeks apart had given her time to reflect and she wanted to be free of him. She had never loved him and as far as she was concerned he could throw away the key to the mansion because she would never visit it again. Hers to the gate had been used for the last time this evening and would be buried where it could never be found.

He crushed the letter in his hand with a groan that tore through him, thumping his fist down on his thigh and shaking his head in both refusal to accept what she had written and in despair. The memory of her animosity at the Beavers’ house returned to him, her resolute avoidance of his eyes even when he had given her that whispered explanation and his note, and he groaned again.

Throughout their long relationship she had persistently refused to say she loved him and there had been times when he had never been sure if it was due to a strange trait in her or her sheer cunning in keeping him forever on a string. Now it was clear that she had never loved him. She had used him as an instrument against her guardians, an act of defiance to prove herself. Why then, if she had felt she no longer had need of him, had she looked so drawn when he had last seen her. There was an answer to that: everybody had had the same look on their faces that day through sorrow over Elizabeth and he had given his own interpretation to Sarah’s expression, being ever on the look-out in his concern for her. Damnation! What a fool he had been!

He sprang to his feet, extinguished the lantern and kicked it into the bushes. Thrusting the letter down into his pocket, he hurried back to the side gate. He felt bitterly resentful, unable to believe that after all there had been between them she had slipped away as easily as she appeared to suppose. Anger and uncertainty confused his mind. Only one thing was sure: in the meantime he was going to get drunk!

He burst into the Royal Oak. It was crowded, the air thick with smoke and he had to elbow his way through to the bar. ‘A tankard of black ale, landlord!’

‘Good evenin’, Mr Bateman. You be home then?’

‘As you see,’ he answered with a savage grin, ‘and with a thirst that you haven’t enough barrels to quench!’

‘Oh, ho! That sounds like a challenge, sir.’ There was laughter from those close by and a sudden air of expectancy. The landlord drew a quart tankard and set it frothing on to the bar. ‘There! Let’s see what you make of that.’

William took the tankard by the handle and swung it up to his lips. He gulped the ale down steadily. It was strong and potent, the perfect antidote for his wounded spirits. Breathlessly and to applause, he set the emptied tankard down again with a crash, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Fill it up again!’

His last clear sober thought was that he would sleep his binge off in the straw of the stables at his own home and return to face the consequences of a night out later the next day. The ale soon took effect. He had eaten nothing since noon, the picnic he had brought to share with Sarah still in the capacious pocket of his coat, and before long he was a main contributor to the bawdy songs that rent the night air. In such a jovial atmosphere ridiculous wagers arose as if out of the air. All William knew was that he had been wagered a shilling to walk the edge of the taproom bar without falling off. The landlord protested, shouting words of caution that he did not even hear in the hubbub. Like a tightrope-walker he set off, swaying dangerously, his feet going everywhere but the place he intended and twice he would have fallen off if willing hands had not pushed him back again. He reached the end and jumped off with flying coat-tails to collapse on the floor, helpless with laughter, propped against a chair.