Read Online The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin by Sophia Tobin - Free Book Online

nodding forwards when she heard footsteps on the pavement outside and the familiar voice of her master. She had promised she would wake Harriet on his return. But now she longed to sleep, and knew his arrival would only bring trouble. Sick with tiredness, she could have wept with exasperation.
    She only dallied a moment, then was spared the decision. Harriet sat up with a little cry. Joanna rose and watched her nervously. ‘Madam?’ she said, keeping her tone low and neutral.
    ‘What time on the clock?’ said Harriet. Her voice had not lost the throaty rasp she had had from crying.
    ‘It’s about one, madam,’ said Joanna.
    ‘Did I hear my husband?’ said Harriet.
    Joanna nodded.
    The gesture seemed to startle Harriet into action. She swung herself out of bed. Joanna hurried to put the little silk slippers on her feet, and felt Harriet’s hand on her shoulder, its coldness soaking through the material of her dress. Silently, Harriet padded over to the door and pulled it open. She gave a little gasp of exertion as she did it. At the sign of weakness Joanna felt suddenly afraid for the girl.
    She followed Harriet out on to the landing. In the darkness, the entrance hall seemed as vast as an abyss. Far below there was a cloud of light, where Oliver the footman stood, holding a branch of candles. In the gloom, Mr Chichester was taking off his gloves.
    ‘Love never comes in through the front door,’ Harriet whispered with a little smile, as though to herself. Certain that Harriet was about to succumb to some kind of hysterical crying fit, Joanna took a step towards her, but before she reached her Harriet had leaned over the balustrade and said in a stage whisper, ‘Nicholas!’
    There was no response, and she whispered again, more urgently. ‘Nicholas!’
    Dutifully, Oliver did not look up, only held his arm out for his master’s cloak. After what seemed like minutes, Nicholas Chichester turned his face up to his wife. He took off his hat. ‘Madam?’ he said.
    Harriet stood, frozen. Joanna sensed that she had finally woken up; that her training had reminded her that her behaviour was indelicate: calling downstairs like an ill-trained servant.
    Trailed by Oliver carrying the candelabrum, Mr Chichester began to climb the spiral staircase, one hand gripping the rail, his head bowed. His approach was slow, and Joanna watched the glint of Oliver’s eyes as he held the candles before them.
    Harriet put her hands to her head, and gave a panicky little start as she touched the unruly mass of curls. Then she tried to flatten her creased gown. Joanna moved back against the wall into the shadows, knowing she could not help her. The master loved order and neatness; Joanna would have laid a wager that, before her marriage, Harriet’s mother had made sure her daughter never had a hair out of place. She had even ordered a portrait of her, a portrait she had given to the master: the painted image of an ideal dynastic beauty.
    As he reached the top of the stairs, Chichester looked his wife up and down dispassionately. ‘You are
déshabillé,’
he said.
    Harriet paused, as though unsure of what to do; then she came forwards, and placed her hands, palms down, on his chest, so they rose and fell with his breathing. ‘Will you not come to me tonight?’ she said, a girlish little curl to her voice, higher in pitch than usual.
    Joanna saw his lips part in surprise, and heard his breath catch in the back of his throat. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I will not.’
    Joanna’s eyes met Oliver’s, and though each of them had the steady, unreadable gaze of the good servant, they sensed the shock in each other.
    With an attempt at coquetry, Harriet put her hand to her husband’s face, then tilted her palm up and touched the skin of her wrist and upper arm against his jaw and neck: the softest skin, where a man would wish to kiss her.
    Nicholas took her wrist, and gently lowered it. ‘Harriet,’ he said. ‘What makes