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

man’s face pressed to the window, white, the nose squashed so it was deformed by the glass. It would have been ridiculous at any other moment, something a child would have laughed at. But as Taylor went to the door Mary saw all colour had drained from his face.
    ‘Maynard,’ said Taylor, opening the door with a jerk so that the bell jangled wildly. ‘Good God, man! You scared the ladies half to death.’
    ‘Speak for yourself, sir,’ said Mallory.
    ‘You are causing concern on the street,’ said Maynard smoothly. ‘Did you think you would attract no attention, rummaging through the house of the departed – God rest his soul? Has more evidence been uncovered? Do you wish the constable to be summoned? I have just passed Mr Pickering, who was giving a most colourful account of this house as a haunted one.’ He caught sight of Mary’s face, and flushed. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Renard. I did not see you there.’
    ‘It is the will, sir, that is all,’ said Taylor. ‘An important matter for those close to Mr Renard, but not to you.’
    ‘In that case, I hope that Mrs Renard will forgive the intrusion,’ said Maynard, tipping his hat and withdrawing. Grisa was still breathing in a laboured way, one hand splayed across his chest.
    ‘Come now, Mr Grisa,’ said Mary, patting his arm.
    ‘Do not interrupt him,’ said Mallory loudly. ‘He is seeking to outdo you in the matter of extreme nervousness.’
    ‘My dear Mrs Renard,’ said Dr Taylor. ‘This is no place for you. Will you allow me to escort you upstairs?’
    Mary placed her hand on his arm, and they went upstairs slowly, Mallory two steps behind them. Mary could not help but feel grateful for the doctor’s calm, steady manner; his arm felt as solid as she felt insubstantial. When they reached the parlour and she took a seat, he stood over her, a kindly smile filling his face, his eyes searching hers with concern.
    ‘Your grief is most natural and a credit to you as a wife,’ he said, ‘but you must be careful of your health, Mrs Renard.’ He had stopped calling her Marie; his sense of decorum, unseated by grief, had returned.
    ‘The doctor and I are in agreement on this,’ said Mallory, sitting down opposite her. I’ve ordered your girl to make caudle. You need it. You are fading, Mary; there is no flesh on your bones.’ To belie her harsh tone, she put her hand to her sister’s cheek, and let it rest there for a moment, as though half in appraisal, half in caress.
    ‘I do not think I can drink caudle,’ said Mary. At the idea of its cloying, milky, spicy sweetness, she felt her stomach roll in rebellion.
    ‘You have to eat,’ said Mallory.
    ‘Mrs Dunning is right,’ said Dr Taylor. ‘And I see she will make a good nurse. I can, at least, take the burden from you of reading the will, and arranging the funeral.’
    Mary saw Mallory’s features tighten, but she said nothing. The doctor took his leave, and the two women heard him go out through the shop door. Mary resumed her former position, settled in the chair, swaddled in her shawl.
    ‘Will you let them take over everything?’ said Mallory. She took Mary’s hands; her sister was unresponsive. ‘What are you thinking of?’
    ‘The manner of his death,’ said Mary. She saw irritation flash across her sister’s face again: how vital Mallory was, how full of life and feeling. She observed this dispassionately, as the doctor, she thought, would observe a patient.
    ‘Then you are wasting your time,’ said Mallory. Her voice was harsh and loud. ‘For he is gone, and you should be glad of it. Open your eyes. There is a business here; there are many things to be dealt with. This house and shop needs a mistress: you must be strong.’
    ‘You speak as though it is simple,’ said Mary. ‘As though my life is my own. But Pierre has not gone, do you see? I feel him in this house, as though he might walk into the room at any moment.’
    As she looked at her sister, Mary could have sworn she saw