Free Goldsmith's Row by Sheila Bishop Page A

notions of making a quick profit.
    Laurence answered all their objections with an obstinate self-sufficiency that was extremely irritating.
    The two apprentices were whispering together by the fire. Sam Downes was the elder, a tough, impudent child with a distinct look of Joel. Will Morris, slighter and more diffident, was his faithful shadow. They were concocting a plan in a volley of suppressed giggles. Unnoticed, they reached down some of the fining tools that hung over the chimney-breast, went through some form of secret preparation at the furnace and then, urging each other forward with many thrusts and nudges, they approached the three men who were still talking beside the bench.
    "Sir," said Sam to Laurence, "can you settle an argument for us?"
    "I'll do my best," said Laurence, smiling.
    "Are you a master-goldsmith, like my father?"
    The smile vanished. Laurence said, in a cold voice, "When I went abroad, I was a journeyman. I shall have to apply to the Company for the right to call myself a master. Was that the cause of your argument?"
    "No, sir—we knew that already," said Sam, with a seraphic innocence. He could see Joel grinning away because the hated usurper had been forced to admit that he was still only a journeyman.
    "Well, make haste, boy; what is it you want to ask Mr. Laurence?" demanded Zachary; he was not exactly displeased himself, but he had better manners than his sons and was a good deal more prudent.
    "Will is learning to decorate a border—here, hold it up, Will, for Mr. Laurence to see—he wants to work it with the little chasing tool, but I think he ought to use a heavy graver. What do you say?"
    Laurence took the fragment of silver and copper alloy; it was a narrow strip that had been sheared off when some large vessel was being cut into shape. On the rather buckled surface Will had managed to scratch a few shaky lines.
    "Yes, you need a firm edge here," remarked Laurence.
    Sam was standing attentively beside him, with a selection of instruments on an iron tray. Laurence reached across and picked up the graver, seizing the metal handle with a decisive grasp. His hand lifted so far, then paused in midair, while his expression changed from dumb astonishment to excruciating pain and he let the tool fall with a clatter on to the stone floor. "My God, it's red hot!"
    He put his burnt hand to his mouth, swearing, while the two boys burst out laughing, and Joel joined in, he couldn't help it.
    For they all knew what had happened, they all knew the rough and ready joking which had reduced many a small apprentice to tears on his first day in the shop. You heated one of the tools, handle and all, over the open top of the furnace; then you removed it with the tongs, put it down as bait and sent the newcomer to fetch it… How delightful to have caught Laurence with that old trick. He had come lording it back to Goldsmiths' Row, expecting to be confirmed as a master in his own right—and this was the figure he cut in front of the apprentices. Impossible not to laugh.
    "That's enough, Joel," said his father. "And as for you two young rogues, I'm ashamed of you. Indeed, I'm sorry for this, Laurence, but they shall each pay the penalty for their bad behavior."
    "No," said Laurence. "Don't punish them on my account. A poor creature I should be if I couldn't endure a laugh at my own expense."
    He tried to speak lightly, but he had gone very white, and he winced as he tried to flex the already stiffening fingers of his injured hand. They all stood staring at him. As though he could not bear that silent mixture of pity and contempt, he turned and hurried out of the workshop, up the wide staircase to the second floor, and straight into someone else he did not wish to meet: Mrs. Philadelphia Whitethorn, busily putting away the clean linen.
    He pushed past her without speaking, went into his bedchamber and slammed the door. Philadelphia gaped after him. How strange he had looked: not at all like the smooth-tongued