Chapter ThreeGenerations of Blanchards had lived and worked in Foster Lane, and their grandly appointed shop had once been London's most fashionable silversmith. The street lay at the heart of the profession that had established the family's fortune. Here stood the great Goldsmiths' Hall, and craftsmen in gold and silver worked and prospered as they had throughout the centuries in the neighboring streets of Cheapside, Gutter Lane, Carey Lane, and Wood Street. The family house next door had been equally sumptuous, for the Blanchards had always considered themselves as being a cut above the craftsmen of other trades. At dinner, they ate off silver plate, with a dozen of the best beeswax candles burning in a pair of Corinthian-columned candelabra. This was no extravagance, argued Nicholas Blanchard: a well-appointed table was a canny business practice. When customers were invited to dine, nothing rivaled serving a perfectly roasted duck on a great oval platter, or a pyramid of syllabubs in trumpet vases, or pickles in scallop shells, to spur commissions.Theodore Blanchard, Nicholas's only son, felt less certain of the need for ostentation.
A year ago, after much prevarication, Nicholas had turned over the running of the business to him. But when Theodore had reviewed the accounts and order books, he had found that the seemingly thriving enterprise was far from profitable. Trade in small silver was dire. With one notable exception -- a gargantuan wine cooler -- no special commissions had been placed for months. Theodore had instigated economies: limited his entertaining; ordered his wife, Lydia, to reduce the household expenditures.But when Nicholas got a whiff of these thrifty measures, he questioned his son's pessimistic view of the accounts. If the Blanchards were in financial difficulties it could be due only to Theodore's inexperience and inefficiency. Perhaps Theodore would prefer his father to resume control.
Meanwhile, whether there were three or thirty at table, he would see his tureens and platters set out, and be reminded of what he had created.On this particular late January evening, there were no guests at the dark mahogany dining table; the family were dining alone. Theodore took his seat between Nicholas and Lydia, while John, the footman, removed the domed lid of the tureen by its acorn finial, and ladled out the almond soup.Theodore's appetite was always formidable, and now he slurped a spoonful, savoring the creamy sweetness, noting that Mrs. Meadowes had expertly prevented the soup from curdling and had seasoned it to perfection with a melange of nutmeg, pepper, bay, and mace. Then he turned to his father. "I wonder, sir, whether you have given further thought to our conversation a week ago?"Nicholas Blanchard's gaunt, heavily lined face regarded his son. "What was its subject?""Moving our business to a more fashionable part of the city.
As I made clear to you before, one reason our custom has dwindled is that the city has spread westward. Other craftsmen have begun to decamp. There are now several highly prosperous workshops in Soho.""And good luck to them," replied Nicholas. "But rest assured, I shall not follow. Since time immemorial the craft has been centered on this very spot. Why should I want to move?"He continued in the same vein as he had last week and the week before that, and on every other occasion that Theodore had proposed alteration of any kind.Theodore gulped, and discounted every word.
"That is all very well, Father, but nothing stays the same indefinitely. Fashions change, cities alter. The name of Blanchard is not held so high as it once was. If we do not acknowledge as much, and search for a remedy, our business will founder and land us bankrupt in the Fleet. It is my solid belief that our trade would be greatly expanded if we moved west to one of the newer environs. Cavendish Square or St. Martin's Lane, perhaps."Nicholas shook his head.
"Wha.