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

a slight shiver move through her. ‘Did you go and see the body?’ Mallory said. ‘I told you not to.’
    ‘I did not go,’ said Mary. ‘This is not about that. When I wake in the morning, all I see is the life he created, and that includes me. It is as I knew, the night he came to speak to our father, to say that he would marry me. I had watched the craft of silversmithing my whole life, from dark corners of workshops. I knew that from my softness, he would make a clay maquette, a waxen form, then cast me out of sterner stuff. And he did: I am, now, his creation. Every dress, every word, almost every movement, I measured and weighed before he himself could measure and weigh it. Day by day every piece of me was stolen away. You look at me as though I should be my old self, but the old Mary is gone and I do not know the way back to her. Our parents and Eli are gone too. It is only you who remembers me as I was; and it is too late for me to make amends for what Pierre did. Do you understand?’
    ‘No,’ said Mallory. Mary saw distress stir in her dark eyes, and knew her sister was fighting it with all the obstinacy of her nature.
    Mary pulled up the black sleeve of her dress, turning her wrist to show the underside of her arm. ‘On the night Pierre died, when Dr Taylor came to tell me, I was asleep by the fire. And somehow, I had gained these.’
    Mallory stared at the bruises in silence.
    ‘Did Pierre do that to you?’ she said.
    ‘No. I told you,’ said Mary. ‘It happened in my sleep.’
    ‘Not this, again.’ Mallory shook her head. She crouched down beside her sister, and took hold of her hands with a gentleness that surprised Mary. But her gaze was firm, and her tone had a warning note to it. ‘My little sister. Cover your arms. Do not show the world your bruises. At night, blow out your candle, keep your eyes closed. Tell yourself: the dead do not walk. They cannot love, and they cannot hate. You must be strong.’ She sounded tired. ‘You will drive yourself mad, and me too. Speaking of spirits and spectres, rather than the practical matters you should be thinking of.’
    ‘Surely you can see that he will not leave me in peace,’ said Mary.
    ‘I do not believe that,’ said Mallory, holding her hands tight. ‘It is the real world that you must deal with. Do you know what our mother would have said?’
    Mary nodded, and said the words as though by rote. ‘Bear what you must bear with patience and resignation; give thanks to God for your blessings.’ Their mother had said it often: when trade was poor, when their servant stole from them, when little Eli refused to sleep, shaking his head and smiling as though it was sunrise at two o’clock in the morning, his blue eyes wide with curiosity.
    Mallory smiled. ‘I never much cared for patience and resignation; nor for giving thanks, come to that. But bear up, Mary. For God’s sake, bear up. Do not listen for footsteps where there are none.’ As though shaking off her sadness, she gave a short laugh, and turned her face away. ‘What a commotion it was down there. And how it made me laugh, the way that man scared them all out of their wits. Such fine gentlemen, they are. Who was the man at the window?’
    ‘One of the coroner’s jury,’ said Mary. Her head was beginning to ache.
    ‘He seemed mighty inquisitive about everything. What did they decide on Pierre’s death?’ said Mallory.
    ‘They have agreed it was theft; killing by person or persons unknown. Dr Taylor told me the streets are thick with villains. Whoever killed Pierre took his watch. Do you remember it? Such a fancy thing. How he loved it.’ It occurred to her that she hadn’t wanted it, that she had surrendered it with no anguish at all.
    ‘It didn’t seem so cut-and-dried from the look on that man’s face when he came knocking at your window,’ said Mallory. ‘Nor is it settled in the gossip up and down Bond Street, if what I heard today is anything to go by.’ She caught