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Authors: Sophia Tobin
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you play the drab tonight?’
Joanna saw the distress dawn on Harriet’s face, and the girl took a faltering step backwards.
Her husband sidestepped her and walked past her. ‘Goodnight,’ he called over his shoulder, Oliver following him as silently as a shadow.
Joanna waited until she heard him at the distant end of the corridor, opening the door to his chamber, where his valet would be waiting with a banked fire and a decanter and glass. When she heard the door close she stepped over to Harriet, and encircled her waist with her arm to support her back to the bedroom. ‘Come now,’ she said softly.
Harriet allowed herself to be steered back into the room, then sat on the bed as Joanna shut the door and lit several more candles. When Joanna returned to her, she was counting under her breath, as though carrying out some complicated equation that she could not solve. The tears were already in her eyes when she put her head against Joanna’s shoulder. ‘I have done enough already to keep myself safe,’ she said, her voice a pitiful sound, almost a squeal. ‘I have, haven’t I?’
Her voice reminded Joanna of the mewling of kittens in a sack in her father’s fist, on the way to a watery grave. She stared at her mistress blankly. ‘I am sure you have,’ she said, not knowing what question she was answering, offering comfort from habit.
‘Please God, I have done enough,’ said Harriet. She began to cry, and laid her hands over her stomach.
Joanna held her tight, and shushed her. Some distant part of her brain noted little light footsteps passing the door: the link-boy, his light long since extinguished, running through the halls like a midnight mouse. She heard a door open at the end of the corridor. I am harder than I was, she thought, as she stroked Harriet’s hair. I should pity you, for though you are a spoiled child, you seem truly wretched. But I have nothing left in my heart for you. Nothing at all.
CHAPTER SIX
16th May, 1792
The image of Sarah and her children stayed with me throughout the day. Her face appeared before my eyes when I tried to concentrate on writing my business correspondence in my chamber this evening. I could not help but feel what a poor creature my wife is by comparison, and my imagination conjured up the life I might have lived had my marriage to Sarah taken place. I have achieved much, yet I have a cold bed, and no children of my own. In truth, I find it unjust that I, who have succeeded in all my endeavours, should be tripped up by a mistaken choice in marriage.
In my prayers, I asked that blessings be rained upon Sarah. I was sitting, thinking of her, when my wife came up to see me. I spoke to her with tolerable kindness. She tries often to be in my confidence, to wheedle things out of me. It takes all of my patience to be gentle with her.
Mary thought she must have been small when her father first took her to the Assay Office, the place in Goldsmiths’ Hall where silver and gold were tested before being hall-marked. For when the memory came to her, she had the sense of being held high in his arms, her face against his, as she stared over the shoulder of the man at the touchstone. The man took the slim piece of metal (the touch needle, her father said) and drew it across the black stone deliberately slowly, taking pleasure in her delight. He did the same with the ring her father had given him, then, so delicate with his large hands, laid a drop of acid on each line.
‘Look at the colour,’ her father said. ‘One line, that drawn by the needle, is gold; the King’s gold; and the other is a baser kind of metal.’
Mary had leaned forwards, almost overbalancing, wanting to touch the black stone with its magic. Had she touched it, she thought, even now, she might have known better; known the difference between base and noble, true and false.
‘One day,’ said her father, ‘you will have a brother, and he will work silver and gold.’
Many years later, he had been
Joanna saw the distress dawn on Harriet’s face, and the girl took a faltering step backwards.
Her husband sidestepped her and walked past her. ‘Goodnight,’ he called over his shoulder, Oliver following him as silently as a shadow.
Joanna waited until she heard him at the distant end of the corridor, opening the door to his chamber, where his valet would be waiting with a banked fire and a decanter and glass. When she heard the door close she stepped over to Harriet, and encircled her waist with her arm to support her back to the bedroom. ‘Come now,’ she said softly.
Harriet allowed herself to be steered back into the room, then sat on the bed as Joanna shut the door and lit several more candles. When Joanna returned to her, she was counting under her breath, as though carrying out some complicated equation that she could not solve. The tears were already in her eyes when she put her head against Joanna’s shoulder. ‘I have done enough already to keep myself safe,’ she said, her voice a pitiful sound, almost a squeal. ‘I have, haven’t I?’
Her voice reminded Joanna of the mewling of kittens in a sack in her father’s fist, on the way to a watery grave. She stared at her mistress blankly. ‘I am sure you have,’ she said, not knowing what question she was answering, offering comfort from habit.
‘Please God, I have done enough,’ said Harriet. She began to cry, and laid her hands over her stomach.
Joanna held her tight, and shushed her. Some distant part of her brain noted little light footsteps passing the door: the link-boy, his light long since extinguished, running through the halls like a midnight mouse. She heard a door open at the end of the corridor. I am harder than I was, she thought, as she stroked Harriet’s hair. I should pity you, for though you are a spoiled child, you seem truly wretched. But I have nothing left in my heart for you. Nothing at all.
CHAPTER SIX
16th May, 1792
The image of Sarah and her children stayed with me throughout the day. Her face appeared before my eyes when I tried to concentrate on writing my business correspondence in my chamber this evening. I could not help but feel what a poor creature my wife is by comparison, and my imagination conjured up the life I might have lived had my marriage to Sarah taken place. I have achieved much, yet I have a cold bed, and no children of my own. In truth, I find it unjust that I, who have succeeded in all my endeavours, should be tripped up by a mistaken choice in marriage.
In my prayers, I asked that blessings be rained upon Sarah. I was sitting, thinking of her, when my wife came up to see me. I spoke to her with tolerable kindness. She tries often to be in my confidence, to wheedle things out of me. It takes all of my patience to be gentle with her.
Mary thought she must have been small when her father first took her to the Assay Office, the place in Goldsmiths’ Hall where silver and gold were tested before being hall-marked. For when the memory came to her, she had the sense of being held high in his arms, her face against his, as she stared over the shoulder of the man at the touchstone. The man took the slim piece of metal (the touch needle, her father said) and drew it across the black stone deliberately slowly, taking pleasure in her delight. He did the same with the ring her father had given him, then, so delicate with his large hands, laid a drop of acid on each line.
‘Look at the colour,’ her father said. ‘One line, that drawn by the needle, is gold; the King’s gold; and the other is a baser kind of metal.’
Mary had leaned forwards, almost overbalancing, wanting to touch the black stone with its magic. Had she touched it, she thought, even now, she might have known better; known the difference between base and noble, true and false.
‘One day,’ said her father, ‘you will have a brother, and he will work silver and gold.’
Many years later, he had been
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