will bring me to life again, I promise.’
Alban smiled a goodnight to Agnes as she turned away, and sipped his beer. It was a good few minutes before either of the men spoke. Above them small footsteps traversed the floor again and again, as though a game was being played. Eventually Alban formed one of the questions that had been moving around his mind.
‘Was Renard a good man?’ he asked. ‘I met him once, but I could not form an opinion.’ He kept his tone quiet, and emotionless.
His cousin gave him a lopsided grin that emphasized the sad expression in his eyes. ‘Not really a good man,’ he said. ‘He was a flatterer, a salesman. He didn’t care too much whether he spoke truth or lies. I called him an oily bastard often enough, behind his back, of course. But his death is – inconvenient, at least. At the worst – well, I will not speak of that. He had spoken of some large commission, and without him – I’m worried that we may have a loss of income, when we need it most.’ His eyes met Alban’s questioning gaze. ‘Agnes is expecting again,’ he said.
Alban sat back in his chair. He could not imagine another child in this dwelling: another whole presence clamouring for food and care. ‘How does she feel?’ he said.
Jesse gave a mirthless laugh. ‘She’s pleased about it,’ he said.
Alban knew he did not need to ask how Jesse felt. The answer lay in the silence between them. He also knew that it was the wrong time to ask about Pierre Renard, to stir up thoughts of the past when there were more immediate concerns.
‘Alban,’ said Jesse. ‘I worry for them. I am so very tired.’ He looked up at Alban’s face. ‘Do not tell me I will get better.’
‘Go to bed,’ said Alban. ‘Sleep. We have work to do tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ said Jesse. ‘And we’ll have a gallon of porter, for your handprint remains on my wall, so we must honour the tradition and drink your health.’
Alban stared at him. ‘Still there,’ he said, remembering his last day in London all those years ago, his cousin chalking his hand, and him laying his hand on the wall, as was the custom when a craftsman left the workshop, the handprint left there to await his return. He had forgotten it, and at Jesse’s words the past seemed to breathe over him again, filling his head with a hundred memories and feelings that made him afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed his emotions.
When Jesse had gone Alban dragged out his truckle bed from its place by the wall, took his boots off and lay down by the embers of the fire. He felt weariness weigh his limbs down. There was too much to consider and he pushed away the concerns crowding his mind. Instead he focused on the journey he had just made; on how far from him London had seemed ever since he had returned to Chester all those years ago.
Here at last, he thought, breathing out.
My silver will be marked with the leopard’s head, for London.
A doubt moved fast across his mind, like a single magpie seen from the corner of the eye, flying too fast to be greeted, a harbinger of sorrow gone in a flash: I’ve come too late, perhaps. London is for a young man to seek his fortune, and I am not that.
He sat up, and drank back the remainder of the beer. Its tang pleased him, and sitting in the warm, he could comfortably reason with himself. What would be the point in coming so far, to bring himself low like this? He had made the resolution that, in London, he would be a new man. He would go to Bond Street with his cousin, present his condolences and his compliments. Even with Renard dead, the business would go on. He would do whatever was necessary – bow and scrape, if need be. Though he doubted his ability to do that; the idea was more palatable than the reality.
He had not asked, though. He had not asked who would be there at the shop; he had not even asked whether she lived. The question came to the front of his mind, for at the first mention of Renard’s name it had
Alban smiled a goodnight to Agnes as she turned away, and sipped his beer. It was a good few minutes before either of the men spoke. Above them small footsteps traversed the floor again and again, as though a game was being played. Eventually Alban formed one of the questions that had been moving around his mind.
‘Was Renard a good man?’ he asked. ‘I met him once, but I could not form an opinion.’ He kept his tone quiet, and emotionless.
His cousin gave him a lopsided grin that emphasized the sad expression in his eyes. ‘Not really a good man,’ he said. ‘He was a flatterer, a salesman. He didn’t care too much whether he spoke truth or lies. I called him an oily bastard often enough, behind his back, of course. But his death is – inconvenient, at least. At the worst – well, I will not speak of that. He had spoken of some large commission, and without him – I’m worried that we may have a loss of income, when we need it most.’ His eyes met Alban’s questioning gaze. ‘Agnes is expecting again,’ he said.
Alban sat back in his chair. He could not imagine another child in this dwelling: another whole presence clamouring for food and care. ‘How does she feel?’ he said.
Jesse gave a mirthless laugh. ‘She’s pleased about it,’ he said.
Alban knew he did not need to ask how Jesse felt. The answer lay in the silence between them. He also knew that it was the wrong time to ask about Pierre Renard, to stir up thoughts of the past when there were more immediate concerns.
‘Alban,’ said Jesse. ‘I worry for them. I am so very tired.’ He looked up at Alban’s face. ‘Do not tell me I will get better.’
‘Go to bed,’ said Alban. ‘Sleep. We have work to do tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ said Jesse. ‘And we’ll have a gallon of porter, for your handprint remains on my wall, so we must honour the tradition and drink your health.’
Alban stared at him. ‘Still there,’ he said, remembering his last day in London all those years ago, his cousin chalking his hand, and him laying his hand on the wall, as was the custom when a craftsman left the workshop, the handprint left there to await his return. He had forgotten it, and at Jesse’s words the past seemed to breathe over him again, filling his head with a hundred memories and feelings that made him afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed his emotions.
When Jesse had gone Alban dragged out his truckle bed from its place by the wall, took his boots off and lay down by the embers of the fire. He felt weariness weigh his limbs down. There was too much to consider and he pushed away the concerns crowding his mind. Instead he focused on the journey he had just made; on how far from him London had seemed ever since he had returned to Chester all those years ago.
Here at last, he thought, breathing out.
My silver will be marked with the leopard’s head, for London.
A doubt moved fast across his mind, like a single magpie seen from the corner of the eye, flying too fast to be greeted, a harbinger of sorrow gone in a flash: I’ve come too late, perhaps. London is for a young man to seek his fortune, and I am not that.
He sat up, and drank back the remainder of the beer. Its tang pleased him, and sitting in the warm, he could comfortably reason with himself. What would be the point in coming so far, to bring himself low like this? He had made the resolution that, in London, he would be a new man. He would go to Bond Street with his cousin, present his condolences and his compliments. Even with Renard dead, the business would go on. He would do whatever was necessary – bow and scrape, if need be. Though he doubted his ability to do that; the idea was more palatable than the reality.
He had not asked, though. He had not asked who would be there at the shop; he had not even asked whether she lived. The question came to the front of his mind, for at the first mention of Renard’s name it had
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