The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Read Online Free PDF Page A

for tight lacing with the current fashions, and she thought her mistress would not notice.
    ‘You lace as quickly as you sew,’ said Harriet, a little smile darting across her face. Joanna said nothing, but as she began to fasten up Harriet put her hand out, and took one of her wrists. ‘Tighter,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to be one of those fat old wives, neglected by her husband. I wish always to be a girl.’
    Joanna stared at her.
    ‘Go on,’ said Harriet.
    Joanna took a breath, and pulled. It was good the mistress couldn’t see it, she thought, her one chink of weakness. Because when she did it, she had to close her eyes.

CHAPTER THREE
    2nd May, 1792
    The Chichesters will do well for me, I think; they wish for a fine toilet service to be made. Such a quaint idea, but one that takes a good deal of bullion, and a good deal of fashioning, so I am satisfied. The husband asked me how I had come to be a silversmith, and I spoke lightly of it, but as I walked away I thought further on it, and of how no man knows the truth that lies in my heart.
    After my mother’s death I was taken in by a family she had known. They were prosperous, charitable people and the father, Mr Pelletier, took to me and thought me worthy of his time. In his company, I saw my first jeweller’s shop. How my heart leapt at the sight of such wealth: the precious stones glittering, and the silver plate casting light over the room. I decided, earnest beyond my years, that this was where my vocation lay, and begged him to help me find an apprenticeship. Before long, I was apprenticed to a goldsmith in Cheapside; Mr Pelletier paid my premium partly in furs and partly in money. I believe his children envied the affection he had for me, for when he left this world they did not send word to me. I felt that, and resent it still. It is strange, with life, for my resentments seem to pile on top of each other, so that they all together build into an anger that haunts me. Why should things that happened so long ago cause me to crumple up a sheet of good paper, or make me wish to snap the pen in my hand as I stare at my ledger?
    As she emerged on to New Bond Street, Mary bowed her head. She had often thought there was something cruel about the morning light, and now splinters of it seemed to be embedding themselves into the sensitive membranes of her eyes. She felt the delicate, papery skin around her eyes crease in discomfort. With a pang of guilt she thought it was lucky Pierre was not here to see her, and tell her that she was not the fresh young girl he had married, her outward disintegration the sign of her inward inferiority.
    She had been left alone in the parlour all night, and even as the sun began to shine her people did not want to come and stir her. She hadn’t noticed the glow of sunlight around the shutters until Ellen came and took the keys again. ‘Are we to open up the shop, Mrs Renard?’ she said. She had taken on the role of spokesperson, the men of the house shying away from the mistress’s unpredictable state. Mary opened her mouth, but couldn’t formulate a reply. She felt empty of all emotion; anaesthetized by a general numbness.
    She heard Ellen pad back to the passage and report to the others that the mistress was insensible. There was a short debate, and Mary decided not to go out there and interrupt it; she had the vague sense that they were enjoying it. Whatever they had to say, she was not interested in it. She was saved from further decision-making when Grisa, the shop manager, arrived noisily on the scene. She heard his voice, heavily accented as always in imitation of her husband, expressing his shock and alarm as Ellen told him the news. He was a theatrical man who always wished to be attired appropriately, so she wondered whether she might hear him beg leave to return to his lodgings to don full mourning. Instead he began to shape a response that the others could follow: ordering black cloth to drape the counters,