With a last glare at the girl who was standing dumbstruck, Ann turned and walked away with her head held high.
Early the next morning, Ann Felton was in a world of her own as she swept the floor in the bar of the Bell Inn. She was remembering the dreadful behaviour of the girl outside the Theatre Royal the previous night and how her parents had stood by and allowed it to happen. Ann’s parents would never have put up with that and she was mystified by the events, but a small smile came to her face when she recalled Richard Wyndham. He was a handsome man – at least what she could see of him by the light of the moon and the gas lamps outside the theatre. He seemed confident without being arrogant and had an easy way with his speech. He appeared to be a gentleman, unlike the philanderer Len Pritchard.
A hand squeezing her bottom brought her thoughts back to the present in an instant and she rounded on the man responsible. Holding the broom between them like a weapon, she snarled, ‘Len Pritchard, I’ve warned you about doing that!’
The landlord grinned and raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh come on, it was just a joke,’ he said, feigning innocence.
‘Keep your jokes for others, Len; I don’t find them at all funny and neither will Gladys when I tell her!’ Ann stepped away from her tormenter. She watched him walk off, shaking his head.
Taking the broom back to the scullery, Ann thought about her boss. In his fifties, he still considered himself God’s gift to women, although Ann couldn’t see why. Len kept his grey hair short and his clothes clean; he was always immaculately turned out to stand at his bar. He treated this bar like a stage and ‘played’ to his customers frequently. He loved the limelight and could often be heard laughing at his own jokes. He would burst into song at the least excuse, thinking he had the voice of an angel and should be performing at the best theatres in London. But Ann thought, deep down, Len was an unhappy man. He was convinced he was worthy of far more than tending the bar in a crumbling tavern which stood in a dying part of a small town.
As she walked into the kitchen, Gladys poured herself a cup of tea and Ann heard the ever present mutterings of a woman tired of her life.
Gladys dragged a mob cap over her hair. Under her breath came the continuous listing of things to be done. ‘Right. I ’ave to get this mutton cooked, vegetables prepared, pastry made… I wonder what that lazy bugger’s up to? He’s never bloody ’ere when there’s work to be done. Probably stood out front ’aving a smoke!’ Gladys ambled around the kitchen, preparing her work surfaces, and Ann watched as she had every morning for the last three years.
The three of them led a mundane life, with nothing exciting ever happening. Their existence went on – same thing, different day. Ann wondered if this was how she would see out her life. Would she die cleaning this hovel? Would God ever see fit to change her life’s journey? Could she change that path herself someday? Ann could only dream…
Two
Victoria Beckett, the girl with a temper like a tornado, had been named after the reigning Queen in an effort to raise her family’s status in the small town of Wednesbury. She was, however, a brat of the first order, and everyone knew it. All of her eighteen years had been spent demanding this, that and the third thing from her parents. Her mother, Ariadne, had given in to her daughter’s every whim, whilst her father despaired.
William Beckett was the manager of the London City and Midland Bank, which sat in the marketplace and was where he spent many long hours. His wife filled her time shopping and socialising in the desperate hope of finding a suitable husband for their daughter.
The Becketts lived in what Ariadne might term a mansion at the top of Spring Head, the street leading away from the marketplace. ‘The Beeches’ had four bedrooms, a parlour, living room, kitchen, scullery and stables, and servants’ quarters as well as an indoor lavatory. Very few properties enjoyed this luxury – most having their privies in a separate building in the yard – so in this Victorian age it was indeed a sign of wealth.
Queen Victoria had reigned for sixty-one years and was adored by her subjects, so much so that when her husband Prince Albert died in 1861, the whole country mourned his loss alongside her. The Queen was in her dotage now and the people guessed it would not be long before her son Edward VII would accede the throne.
However, her namesake cared nothing for royalty. Victoria Beckett cared only for herself and what she could get out of her parents.
Dressing for breakfast, Victoria relived the day of the Mayor’s ball, when she and her mother had climbed into the cab snapping out the names of the shops they wished to visit. The cab driver had rolled his eyes as he turned the horse in the direction they were to travel.
Although The Beeches was not far from the marketplace, Ariadne could not be seen to be walking; only the poor walked to their destinations. As the carriage had rumbled over the cobblestones of Spring Head, the summer sunshine poured in through its windows. The heat began to make Victoria testy and she had banged on the ceiling of the cab with her parasol yelling for the cabbie to get a move on.
The driver had ignored her call, for as they approached the intersection with Ridding Lane, the carriage had stopped. Taking his time, he’d looked both ways for any other forms of traffic or people crossing and, deciding this would be a good time to light his pipe, he took out his tobacco pouch. Filling his pipe, he struck a match and, cupping it with his hand, he held it to the pipe bowl, drawing hard on its stem.
Victoria had wrinkled her nose as she smelled the smoke from the pipe. Disgusting habit!
Another bang of the parasol had told him his passengers were now very irritable. With his pipe clenched between his teeth, he retrieved the horse’s reins. Checking again that the way was clear, he snapped the reins together with a loud crack. The horse shot forward, dragging the carriage behind it and sending the women inside sprawling on their seats. The first port of call for mother and daughter had been ‘Broadhouse Gowns’.
The Misses Broadhouse, identical twins, ran their dress shop in the marketplace and were renowned for their quirky ways. Never could a conversation be had without one finishing the other’s sentence. For all that, they were the finest dressmakers in the town and commanded custom from the wealthiest families.
Flora and Laura Broadhouse had welcomed Victoria and her mother into the shop.
‘Welcome, it’s nice to…’ Flora began.
‘… see you,’ Laura finished.
Victoria had tutted loudly, rolling her eyes at the women’s odd mode of speech. ‘Is my ball gown ready?’ she demanded to know.
‘Just as…’ Laura began.
‘… you ordered,’ Flora ended.
‘Well?’ Victoria had glared at the twins.
Rushing into the back room, they had soon reappeared with a striking scarlet gown, and snatching the dress, Victoria had quickly retired to try it on. With a sweetheart neckline cut low, it had capped sleeves and was nipped tightly in at the waistline. The voluminous skirt swelled out, the hemline sitting perfectly on top of the girl’s feet. Swishing through to parade before her mother, Victoria had turned around, looking at herself from all angles in the long free-standing mirror. Victoria was delighted.
‘I’m really not sure about the colour, dear,’ Ariadne had said.
‘Oh, Mother! I don’t want to be lost among the white dresses of the other girls at the ball!’ her daughter had huffed.
‘Well, in that gown you certainly won’t be!’
Turning to the Misses Broadhouse, Victoria had snapped, ‘Wrap it, box it and send the bill to Daddy!’ Walking into the back room to disrobe, she had left her mother shaking her head.
In the carriage once more, the women had headed next to collect Victoria’s red shoes in Upper High Street. Then it was on to the hotel at the end of Albert Street. Everyone who was anyone took lunch in the Albert Hotel’s fine dining room. Victoria thought it an excellent place to show off the boxes that held her dress and shoes, flatly refusing to leave them in the cab whilst they ate. She wanted all to be
aware of where the women had shopped that morning.
Waltzing into the dining room, Victoria had ignored the maître d’ and marched to the table in the centre of the room. She wanted to be seen and she’d chosen the perfect spot. A waiter appeared in an instant, clutching a menu, with the wine waiter at his heels.
All conversation at surrounding tables had ceased as the Becketts entered the room, and as Victoria cast her eyes around, the mutterings began once more. She smiled, they had all seen her enter and were now trying to ignore her. She knew they had spied her purchases and she felt jubilant as she sat her with nose in the air.
Voices at the doorway drew every pair of eyes as the maître d’ began apologising to the handsome young man by his side. Waving the apology away, the man sat at the table next to the Becketts. As the man scanned the menu, Victoria called over the maître d’ with a click of her fingers.
‘What is all the disturbance about?’ she asked harshly.
‘I’m afraid the gentleman’s table was taken by someone else, madam,’ the man said.
‘Oh, by whom?’ Victoria asked.
‘By you – madam!’ Turning on his heel, the maître d’ had stalked away.
Victoria had noticed the young man at the next table raise his menu, and she thought it had been to hide his smirk.
*
The ball had been held at the grandiose Theatre Royal on High Street, and was to celebrate the new Mayor taking up office. Carriages had rolled up one after the other, dropping their passengers at the front door of the theatre. Crowds of people gathered to chat in the balmy evening before they made their way inside.
Outside the theatre, gentlemen in their tailcoats and top hats leaned on silver-topped canes as their wives admired the ball gowns of their friends. All colours, sizes and styles of dresses were in evidence, the skirts of which swished around the ladies’ legs as they sauntered into the building.
The music from the small orchestra could be heard in the street through the open door, along with laughter from the people filing in.
Victoria Beckett had insisted they be fashionably late and on arrival she had pushed her way through the crowd, closely followed by her parents. William had profusely apologised for his daughter’s behaviour before stepping into the theatre proper. The Master of Ceremonies had announced them by name before moving on to the next guests.
The building held two massive rooms: the theatre itself where plays and music hall attractions were performed, and a huge ballroom. Large chandeliers lit the wooden dance floor and tables and chairs were placed all around it. An anteroom sported a drinks bar, where tables of food were laid out for the patrons.
William immediately went to the table, holding a punch bowl and glasses. Filling two, he had taken them to his wife and daughter before returning to the bar to chat with friends.
Ariadne sat at a table with other women, while Victoria patrolled the perimeter of the dance floor. Smiling and nodding to people she knew, she caught the disgusted looks of older women at the cut and colour of her gown. Smirking, she had moved on.
The Master of Ceremonies’ voice boomed out across the ballroom once more: ‘Lord Richard Wyndham, Viscount of Shrewsbury.’
Looking across the room, Victoria had gasped as she recognised the man just announced. It was the man whose table she had taken at the Albert Hotel earlier in the day!
Watching him chatting easily with the higher echelon of society, Victoria had studied him closely. He stood at least six feet tall, with dark unruly hair. Dark eyes sparkled as he laughed with men and women alike. His casual swagger showed his confidence and he listened carefully when spoken to.
Bowing his head to an older man, Lord Wyndham had taken the hand of the man’s wife and led her onto the dance floor. He whirled the lady around to the melody of a waltz, laughing as they danced.
Victoria stood enraptured as she watched. The music ended and Wyndham led the woman back to her husband. Shaking hands with the man, he then kissed the back of the lady’s hand. It was like being in a dream, like being transported back to bygone days when chivalry was still everything.
Victoria had meandered through the crowds of people, her eyes never leaving Richard Wyndham, but he appeared not to notice her. She stopped to listen in on a conversation, then laughed loudly whilst the other ladies merely tittered. She had attracted the attention of those close by, but still Lord Wyndham had not spared her a glance.
Eventually she sauntered to where he was standing talking and deliberately knocked his arm as she passed by. Only then did his brown eyes turn to her.
‘I am most dreadfully sorry,’ she had said, feigning concern.
‘It’s quite all right, Miss, no harm done,’ he’d replied with a small bow before pointedly turning his back to her to resume his conversation.
Victoria’s anger had spiked and her nostrils flared as she marched away, feeling wounded by what she felt was his rude behaviour.
However, as the evening wore on her temper had cooled. She continued to watch the Viscount as he socialised easily with the high ranking families in attendance.
As the orchestra struck up yet again, Victoria made her decision right there and then. Somehow, she was going to find a way to marry Lord Wyndham, Viscount of Shrewsbury.
Later that evening, Victoria had wailed all the way home in the carriage. She’d had a terrible time at the ball, she’d cried. Lord Wyndham had not noticed her – not even in her scarlet dress! At least, not until that wretched girl outside had verbally attacked her! She brushed aside her mother’s comment that she had been the one who had started the confrontation and wailed that she was sure the girl had been a prostitute. By the time they entered the house, William Beckett had had enough.
‘Victoria! Bed – NOW!’ Pointing to the stairs, he’d watched as his daughter flounced to her room.
*
Victoria’s mind snapped her attention back into focus as she checked her look in the mirror the next morning. Then she ran lightly down the stairs, her dress skirts held high to prevent tripping hoping to be able to enjoy a leisurely morning meal.
William sat at the breakfast table, his face hidden behind the newspaper. Listening to his wife trying to jockey their daughter out of yet another foul mood, he sighed. How had his life come to this? He was a prominent banker, with a nice house and a family. He should be happy at this time of life.
Hearing Victoria snap at her mother, he shook the newspaper, leaving the women in no doubt he wished to read in peace. A moment later, Victoria pushed back her chair and bounced out of the room. Folding the paper, William laid it on the table beside his plate and eyed his wife. That daughter of his was becoming a proper little madam and he knew it was time to bring her down a peg or two.
‘Mother, this has to stop,’ he said quietly.
‘How? What can I do? She won’t listen to me, William!’ Ariadne’s birdlike movements were evident as her head snapped back and forth and her eyes darted to the door and back to her husband.
‘If she continues this intolerable behaviour, I will stop her allowance and you will buy her nothing more. She’s been spoilt and we’re both to blame, but I warn you now, I will not continue to condone behaviour such as we saw last night any longer!’
‘But, William, you know how she is if she doesn’t get her own way!’ Ariadne stifled the tears she felt beginning to come. ‘She frightens me, William, I’m afraid she might strike me!’
‘That’s part of the problem; she knows this and uses it to her advantage. Grow a backbone, woman! Put your daughter in her place once and for all!’ With that, William stood and walked from the room, leaving a trembling wife behind him.
Later that morning Ariadne watched her husband leave for work and her eyes rose to the ceiling. Victoria was no doubt sulking in her bedroom, which was situated directly over the kitchen. She wished with all her heart some kind soul would ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Life would be so much better if she was gone from the house, but her nas
ty reputation preceded her. People avoided Victoria Beckett as much as possible, not wishing to get embroiled in a confrontation with the bad tempered young woman. Ariadne knew it was her fault that Victoria was the way she was. She knew she should have been sterner with the girl as she grew up, but she hadn’t and now her daughter was out of control.
When she first married William, the doctor had said Ariadne was barren and would never conceive a child and despite her sorrow she had resigned herself to the fact. But then, years later, when she found herself pregnant, her joy was unbounded. Victoria was born and Ariadne was in a blissful state of mind. The pretty little girl showed spirit as she grew and she was doted on by both of her parents. Growing healthy and strong, Victoria’s spirit also strengthened. Ariadne had hired a nanny when her daughter was small, but the woman didn’t stay long. Victoria had shown a violent streak by kicking and biting the woman when the nanny wouldn’t dance to her tune. There had been issues at school too, when Victoria had been accused of bullying the other children. Ariadne guessed it was the case despite her daughter’s vehement denial. Ariadne recalled a day when her young daughter had been caught chasing a cat around the garden, her foot kicking out at every opportunity. Fortunately, the nimble cat was quicker than the child and it escaped its tormenter.
Now Victoria was a wilful eighteen year old with a temper to rival the thunder god himself.
The dining room door flew open, breaking Ariadne’s thoughts, and in marched Victoria dressed in a pink dress, a straw boater on her head.
‘Mother, I want to go shopping!’
Ariadne sighed. Taking her courage in both hands, she shook her head. ‘No.’
‘What? No? What do you mean?’ Victoria was aghast at the refusal.
‘Your father has forbidden it. There will be no more shopping trips until your behaviour improves.’ Ariadne’s voice trembled as she spoke; she guessed what would come next, but even she underestimated the fury of her daughter’s reaction.
Victoria grabbed the tablecloth and yanked it hard. Cutlery and crockery crashed to the floor, sending shards of china scattering all around. Throwing the cloth down, Victoria stamped her foot, placed her hands on her hips and stood glaring at her mother.
Fallen Women Page 2
