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

he said. ‘Remember, we are armed; there is no need to stir yourselves.’ But his words had little effect and he turned aside with irritation. As they waited in the moonlight, Alban looked out at the fields he had walked as a child and watched the long grass ripple in the wind.
    I am leaving here for ever, he thought. The conviction that he would never return surprised him; for though no dates had been discussed, he’d initially thought his stay with Jesse would be temporary. What surprised him still further was that he felt no sorrow at his leave-taking. He tried to bring himself in touch with it. He tried to bid the familiar landscape goodbye as the mail coach started forwards again: to forge into his memory the view of the fields and the sky, blue-black in the moonlight.
    His family had always told him he was too sensitive, too fastidious, too careful: and yet as the landscape of his childhood, so loaded with memories, had receded from him, he felt nothing. The nothingness was familiar to him. It approached him sometimes; he felt it in the middle distance, nearing him.
    There is a gap, he thought, where my heart should be.
    The house on Foster Lane was the same as he remembered, but Jesse was not. Something had left him, although he was Jesse well enough, and not visibly ill. He came to the door at Grafton’s knock, and gripped Alban’s hand strongly.
    ‘I see no invalid,’ said Alban, trying to make light of his purpose. ‘Am I really needed here, or have I come all this way for nothing?’
    Jesse gave him a weak smile. ‘Some days are better than others,’ he said. ‘Yesterday I came in late from a visit to a customer and could hardly lift my limbs at all. I’m lucky I have my best apprentice here.’ He slapped Grafton on the shoulder, and the boy smiled.
    Jesse’s children provided a welcome distraction. They swarmed towards him as he entered the parlour, all seemingly identical at first glance, differing only in height. Every child had the same milky blonde hair, green eyes, freckled skin and mouths overfilled with crooked teeth. They were all lean and long-limbed, like their father. They parted easily for him. ‘It’s good to see you, Alban,’ Jesse said. ‘Children, let him through to the seat by the fire – how long has it been?’
    ‘Eleven years,’ said Alban; he had the date he’d left London written down somewhere, probably on the back of a design sheet. He wished he could name it now: he enjoyed precision.
    Jesse sucked the air in through his teeth. ‘Have we lived that long?’ he said. ‘You don’t look a day older than when you left. Does he, Agnes?’ He turned to his wife, who had stepped quietly in behind them, carrying a small child neatly on her hip.
    ‘Always so handsome,’ said Agnes, kissing Alban on the cheek. ‘And your hair is still black, while mine . . .’ Laughing nervously, she tucked a grey curl under her cap.
    ‘You are still as lovely as ever you were,’ said Alban, and he didn’t lie. Agnes looked to be the same uncomplicated, cheerful girl he remembered his cousin plighting his troth to. There were lines around her eyes and her figure was thicker. But she didn’t have the sadness that ricocheted off the spaces in Jesse’s eyes. She wore her exhaustion proudly, as though it was an honour that she was happy to bear.
    ‘How many children now?’ Alban said, looking around. ‘I can’t even count them.’
    Jesse laughed, though his eyes flickered. ‘They move too fast. Seven.’ He lowered his voice. ‘A man must work hard to support them all.’
    Alban fixed his gaze. ‘I’m your hammer man now,’ he said. ‘I work quicker these days, so whatever Renard throws at you, I’m your man.’
    ‘I appreciate you being here,’ said Jesse. ‘I’ll make sure you don’t regret it. Tomorrow we will go to the Hall to have some silver touched, and you will see some of your old friends. I’ve spread the word to every worker of the metal in London. Soon