The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin by Sophia Tobin

sight of Mary’s face. ‘We will not think of it any more,’ she said. ‘Whatever happened, it was Pierre’s own fault. Wandering round the streets at night. Going places he had no business to be. His fault, Mary, just as this whole situation is.’ She looked at her sister, long and hard.
    But Mary was elsewhere, thinking of the distant past. Why did it come back to her so clearly now? Being held tight by her father as she gazed at the Assay Office dishes of bonemeal, and the man’s voice telling her: ‘We wrap it in lead, Mary, and then, through heat, we separate the noble metals from the base; because as the heat grows strong, everything base is burnt away.’ But you are wrong, she thought, and she wished she could go back and tell the man so. I have been tried, and all that is left of me is the ash of my impurities.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    18th May, 1792
    Whilst lying awake in bed this morning, I conceived of an excellent plan. I will write to Sarah and offer an apprenticeship to her younger son, gratis. I am sure she would be most grateful for such a prestigious place. I will reassure her that there is no obligation in the case; and assure her that she will always have a friend in me.
    I went to see my good friend, Jones, this afternoon, to purchase some tablets for my wife’s headaches. Jones is my age and, like me, was a poor apprentice. He served the apothecary whose business, and wife, he now has, for his former master died some six years ago. He has done me many a service, for at the time we bemoaned our state often and it forged an unbreakable bond between us. It raised my spirits to see him.
    When Alban woke, he thought: this is the day, and the jolt was immediate. He and Jesse had put off the visit to Bond Street by two days, not wanting to appear gawpers at a scene where blood had been spilled. As the sleep cleared from his eyes, he saw Jesse, sitting at the table, not watching him, but staring at his hands. Alban sat up, and Jesse put a finger to his lips to signal that Agnes and the children were still sleeping. Alban joined him at the table, moderating his voice so it was a near-whisper, watching Jesse fiddling with his own fingers. He seemed to quiver with nervous energy this morning. ‘We can wait,’ Alban said, wondering if it was wise for his cousin to venture out. ‘It’s a long walk for you.’
    ‘Only if it’s a bad day,’ said Jesse, with a slight lopsided twitch of his mouth upwards. ‘And it’s not, today: I know it. I feel I could walk to Chester and back, take over your business, cousin, rather than have to deal with all this, hawking for trade at a house in mourning.’
    They both dressed as though they were going to church, and set out just as the children were waking, their small voices pealing through the morning air as Jesse shut the door behind them. The sky was dark blue, suggesting evening rather than morning, and they walked briskly in the cold air. They travelled without speaking, peaceably, as they were wont to do as young men, threading their way through the narrow streets of the City, the cries of the street sellers beginning, the black shapes of kites hovering above.
    As the sun rose fully their spirits rose with it, both of them walking with their shoulders back, turning their faces up to the light. Jesse looked at Alban and smiled. ‘Your face is like a sundial, cousin,’ he said. ‘By the fire of an evening you seem ageless as silver, but catch you in the morning light and I can see the days and hours there, in the way the shadows fall.’
    Alban shoved him. ‘Damn the light,’ he said, and at the sound of Jesse’s laugh he wished they could walk forever, and never reach Bond Street.
    Imagining this moment had been uncomplicated; after all, what was it but the putting of one foot in front of the other? But Alban had not reckoned on the feelings that grew ever more intense as they neared their destination, the inner world that distracted him from the cold and the