Read Online The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin by Sophia Tobin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sophia Tobin
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sure, even before Eli was born, that his last child would be a son.
‘Mary?’
Mallory’s voice, low and loud, broke through Mary’s thoughts, bringing her back to the parlour. In the morning light, every object was harshly delineated, unsoftened by the shadows and candlelight of evening. Mary was dressed in the black bombazine dress she had worn to mourn her parents, and the garment had wrapped her in memories which constantly claimed her attention.
‘What in the name of Christ are those men doing down there, gathered as if it is a hanging day?’ Mallory said. ‘And why are you not there? Are you not mistress of this house?’
Mary recognized the look on her sister’s face: as though she had been lumbered with a recalcitrant child who was sorely in need of a good hiding. Instead of answering her, Mary huddled deeper into her shawl. The taste of her breakfast roll still lingered in her mouth, sour and grainy, as though someone had put chalk in the flour. It was not out of the question, she supposed.
There was the sound of a chest being dragged across the floor downstairs, the sound of wood and metal scraping on stone. ‘They are being too loud,’ said Mary faintly. ‘They will tear the house apart. Why must men destroy everything?’
‘Will you answer me?’ said Mallory.
‘They are looking for Pierre’s will,’ said Mary. ‘He told Dr Taylor he had made him executor. They asked me, but I know nothing of it. And now they cannot find it either.’
Mallory shook her head, as though to indicate she was valiantly keeping her temper in the midst of the most absurd situation she had ever heard of. She had been executrix of both her husbands’ wills. When Francis Dunning had said he preferred to wait until he was ill to make one, she had clapped him around the side of the head so hard he said he had seen stars for a week.
‘Are you sure he made one?’ said Mallory. ‘He was just the kind of man to think he would live forever, and said all kinds of fiction with three bottles of claret inside him. Oh,’ she gave a cry, ‘how he went on about it: I am a three-bottle man, at least, as if that qualified him for some high position.’
‘It was not long ago that he wrote it,’ said Mary. ‘Do you remember when he took to his bed with that cold? He was convinced he would die.’
‘I do not, unfortunately,’ said Mallory.
‘I tended to him all night, and the next day he wrote it. Scratching away, behind a locked door. He was always stowing things in dark corners. He trusted no one, though you would not think it to see him smile.’
‘Did you not ask him where he kept it?’ Mallory was relentless: her strong voice, so toneless, so sure.
‘No, I did not,’ said Mary, struggling to keep her self-control. ‘You knew him. You know it would have been pointless to ask him. He would never have told me.’
She knew what would have happened had she asked Pierre where he kept the will. He would have insinuated that she wished for his death. Pierre seemed to search automatically for the vice in everything she said. His face was not expressive, but in his last days, his eyes had clouded with dislike every time she spoke. She wondered if he had felt that way for years, and simply become less adept at hiding it. His eyes would seem to darken, and there would be a frozen aspect to his face, pale patches around his nose, as though her words had shocked him enough to stop his blood from flowing for a moment. At such times she would touch his hand, and say ‘my dear’ to him, as though the words carried some kind of opiate effect, the marker of a partnership that neither had completely abandoned.
‘You are over-tired,’ said Mallory. ‘I have sent for Avery, and she will not thank me for it; there will be so much for her to do when she arrives, if you let things run on as they are.’
Mary had a vague memory of their cousin as a slim, blonde girl with a ready smile and a caustic wit. ‘I have not seen her
‘Mary?’
Mallory’s voice, low and loud, broke through Mary’s thoughts, bringing her back to the parlour. In the morning light, every object was harshly delineated, unsoftened by the shadows and candlelight of evening. Mary was dressed in the black bombazine dress she had worn to mourn her parents, and the garment had wrapped her in memories which constantly claimed her attention.
‘What in the name of Christ are those men doing down there, gathered as if it is a hanging day?’ Mallory said. ‘And why are you not there? Are you not mistress of this house?’
Mary recognized the look on her sister’s face: as though she had been lumbered with a recalcitrant child who was sorely in need of a good hiding. Instead of answering her, Mary huddled deeper into her shawl. The taste of her breakfast roll still lingered in her mouth, sour and grainy, as though someone had put chalk in the flour. It was not out of the question, she supposed.
There was the sound of a chest being dragged across the floor downstairs, the sound of wood and metal scraping on stone. ‘They are being too loud,’ said Mary faintly. ‘They will tear the house apart. Why must men destroy everything?’
‘Will you answer me?’ said Mallory.
‘They are looking for Pierre’s will,’ said Mary. ‘He told Dr Taylor he had made him executor. They asked me, but I know nothing of it. And now they cannot find it either.’
Mallory shook her head, as though to indicate she was valiantly keeping her temper in the midst of the most absurd situation she had ever heard of. She had been executrix of both her husbands’ wills. When Francis Dunning had said he preferred to wait until he was ill to make one, she had clapped him around the side of the head so hard he said he had seen stars for a week.
‘Are you sure he made one?’ said Mallory. ‘He was just the kind of man to think he would live forever, and said all kinds of fiction with three bottles of claret inside him. Oh,’ she gave a cry, ‘how he went on about it: I am a three-bottle man, at least, as if that qualified him for some high position.’
‘It was not long ago that he wrote it,’ said Mary. ‘Do you remember when he took to his bed with that cold? He was convinced he would die.’
‘I do not, unfortunately,’ said Mallory.
‘I tended to him all night, and the next day he wrote it. Scratching away, behind a locked door. He was always stowing things in dark corners. He trusted no one, though you would not think it to see him smile.’
‘Did you not ask him where he kept it?’ Mallory was relentless: her strong voice, so toneless, so sure.
‘No, I did not,’ said Mary, struggling to keep her self-control. ‘You knew him. You know it would have been pointless to ask him. He would never have told me.’
She knew what would have happened had she asked Pierre where he kept the will. He would have insinuated that she wished for his death. Pierre seemed to search automatically for the vice in everything she said. His face was not expressive, but in his last days, his eyes had clouded with dislike every time she spoke. She wondered if he had felt that way for years, and simply become less adept at hiding it. His eyes would seem to darken, and there would be a frozen aspect to his face, pale patches around his nose, as though her words had shocked him enough to stop his blood from flowing for a moment. At such times she would touch his hand, and say ‘my dear’ to him, as though the words carried some kind of opiate effect, the marker of a partnership that neither had completely abandoned.
‘You are over-tired,’ said Mallory. ‘I have sent for Avery, and she will not thank me for it; there will be so much for her to do when she arrives, if you let things run on as they are.’
Mary had a vague memory of their cousin as a slim, blonde girl with a ready smile and a caustic wit. ‘I have not seen her
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