by Jude Thomas
‘And cobalt! And sapphire like the Queen’s jewels!’ Billie is overcome by the vision.
‘Look, now they’re turning red – ruby!’
‘Turquoise! And amethyst!’
‘Tangerine!’
‘You can’t say that – it’s not a mineral!’ She glares triumphantly.
Tiger eye quartz, just like your eyes. A surge of desire engulfs him. He is glad of the darkness so that she, his quaint little sister-friend, cannot notice his burning face or his tautening body.
‘You win,’ he says quietly.
Without warning Billie’s eyes fill. ‘Oh, Robbie, I don’t feel like I’m winning. I’ve been feeling so very sad. I cannot reconcile that Mr Northey has not come home to us, even now. It is not real, but it is. I have been so awfully unhappy. It all seems so strange that he won’t be here to see me matriculate.’ She draws a quivering breath. ‘And also, I have missed seeing you too since you’ve had your head down at varsity. I’ve felt very lonely, somehow. But look! Now the Lights seems to be saying something to me, something that makes me a wee bit happy again. Is that a bad thing, do you think?’
‘No, it isn’t bad,’ replies Robbie, ‘and you will no doubt be sad off-and-on for a long time to come. And yes, the Lights are so splendid. I knew this presentation which I ordered especially – ’ he creates an expansive gesture across the panorama, ‘ – would cheer you up. But Miss Frost, you are shivering in the chill that bears your name. You are so small and young, and I am so tall and old, ho ho! Shall I draw you in closer and tuck your little arm into mine so that you may become warmer?’
The aurora swirls its splendour across the evening sky. ‘I don’t mind,’ she says, too casually.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Meg is still unconvinced. It is over a year since she and Alf were informed of the bequest. Although Mr Ogilvy urged them to proceed with caution until probate was finalised, there have been no challenges from Edwin Northey’s mother who inherited the Dunedin estate, nor from his sisters’ husbands who now own substantial holdings on the Taieri Plains. Meanwhile Alton has apparently not risen from his cups. Nobody has ever questioned the possibility of another slice of inheritance, for which James Ogilvy is cautiously pleased. The five thousand pounds are, therefore, waiting for the Maguires in the Bank of New Zealand.
But to purchase their own home on the back of such misfortune? It doesn’t seem proper to Meg, even if Alf is of a different opinion.
Her old friend, Nessie, in whom she has confided obliquely, is also encouraging. ‘Well, dearie, I canna see what the problem is. If I had an auld aunty who left me a fortune, God rest her soul, I’d nae look that gift horse in the mooth. I’d be buying a wee hoose as quick as a flash. Think, Meggy, think about your future. Och, it will be more secure for ye, what with the likelihood of yon Abbeyleix being sold again to another owner, and ye having to negotiate to stay on. Much better for all of ye. Aye. So what say take a wee leuk-out soon?’
Modest housing is at a premium in Dunedin town. Tours of inspection are made but each time Meg turns down the property due to some supposed deficiency in size, condition, price or location. And she most definitely will not move far from the area that has been her life since arriving in the colony as a young bride back in the late ’forties. There is far more choice in the city outskirts but although she has a friend south in the Caversham borough, another north at Kaikorai and even a few down the peninsula at Portobello, Meg is adamantly opposed to the notion. For what would they do with acres of land or having to walk for miles at their age? How difficult would it be for Billie to get about to school and Ogilvys and such-like? No, indeed, close to the city and Maclaggan Street it must be. And while her bones ache by the end of the day, she enjoys her work at the Abbeyleix with the ability to fall straight into bed after she closes the kitchen for the night.
So, should their current situation come to an end, then will be the time to consider the next step. Meg is not inclined to be moved on the matter and Alf knows better than to press her. He will merely keep watch over the situation in his own quiet way.
Billie exits the doorway of Ogilvy and Ogilvy after her day’s attendance and turns for home. She is known to many on the street and young men are starting to doff their hats. Her pert face is taking on more mature contours and starting to catch up with her wide eyes. Some would say she is becoming quite handsome, in an odd sort of way.
This day, her balance receives a jolt as she spots her nemesis lounging nonchalantly against a building diagonally opposite. She has managed to avoid him for over a year, but how will she do so now without turning back uphill and heading the long way home?
The nefarious Tinks Toomey knows her timetable; nothing is by chance. Nor has he been idle on other counts. He is a born negotiator and nothing pleases him more than calculating a deal. Missing out on an opportunity or being beaten at his game provokes him to an inward seethe of anger, but he negotiates his way through resistance on most occasions.
‘I’ll tell ye what,’ he will entice a hesitant customer, ‘I’d not want to t’ink of ye missin’ out on an opportunity, so here’s what I’ll do for ye, and ’tis it between us, and nobody else. Sure, but ye have me in yer hands entirely.’
Tinks can charm the birds out of the trees or a consent out of a rejection, just as his father and his father’s father did, leaving only a blur of doubt in the recipient’s mind. His dress is always stylish and he keeps his boots polished. He is gaining a respectable reputation in some quarters. Not for him, in and out of gaol like his drunken sod of a Da, not for him the need to mash in a woman’s head to get cooperation. No, he may carry a flick knife for protection, but it is charm that carries the day.
This day Billie decides to continue down the hill, endeavouring to ignore him.
But he calls out, ‘Miss Billie Frost! Hey, Miss Billie! How are ye on such a grand afternoon? Sure, you’re lookin’ gorgeous in dat bonnet.’
Miss Billie? Tinks has never addressed her anything other than Bill. And here he is – one moment across the road and now right upon her – bowing pretentiously.
‘Miss Billie, I just saw you comin’ and t’ought to meself, ’tis time to speak wit’ ye. Time to put misunderstandin’ behind us, if ye know what I mean?’
‘Misunderstanding? I don’t think so, Mr Toomey. I understood exactly what you proposed and you – you disgust me!’
‘Miss Billie – Bill – I’m desprit sorry about dat time. Sure, I got da wrong end of t’ings entirely, and I humbly apologise.’ He executes a contrite stance.
She does not smile or change her stiff expression. ‘Thank you, but stay away from me. You give me the shivers and I don’t want to think about it.’
But as she marches away she cannot stop thinking about him. Thinking of the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. Thinking of his scent.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
November 1874
The second year’s interest on investments has been deposited into the Thornbury Trust account and at sixteen, Billie is permitted to use it on her own behalf. She could buy more books for Miss Clayton’s class, or clothes, or something grand for Meg and Alf. But she needs a better idea: a project. Preferably something that involves making money and helping others. Like helping her school friend, Temperance Ivimey.
Tempe finished her schooling last year and assists her mother at dressmaking. Maude Ivimey is now a widow and works exceedingly long hours towards the upkeep of her home and while the house is secure, there are always expenses to be paid and repairs to be made. With Tempe executing fine beadwork and cut-work trims, their clientele is becoming more exclusive and no longer do they need to labour quite so hard for meagre rewards.
Some women bring yards of fine cloth sourced from France or Italy – the sturdy weaves produced by the local woollen mills are not for them. Others make their purchases at Ross and Glendining, general importers, or have bolts sent out from Home. Whatever the source, these patrons require high-quality garm
ents and they pay well. The dressmakers can hardly keep up with demand. Billie’s friend Susannah – recently returned from the wilds of Central Otago – has been introduced to the Ivimeys. With her willowy body, she acts as a muse and patrons regularly fall in love with the beautifully draped effects.
Billie has compiled a few of her sketches based on fashion plates from The Ladies’ Gazette of Fashion from London and Harper’s Bazaar which she now orders direct from New York. She drools over the etchings.
‘Listen to this, how grand it sounds: “Ladies’ promenade dresses! Sea-side and watering-place costumes! Street and indoor toilettes!” And see the description of fabrics: “camel’s hair brocaded wool … green silk shot with chestnut … ruby chenille with inserts of embroidered taffeta.”
‘And look at this darling cape: “a mantelet of ecru cashmere lined with sapphire silk moire and pleated matching trim.” Oh, if only we could make some up for a display!’ she finally looks up from the magazine.
‘If only we had a small salon,’ muses the widow, ‘we could move this jumble and have our parlour back. What heaven it would be to actually sit upon one’s own chaise without being surrounded by a workroom.’
The seed of an idea bursts open. ‘Yes, that is the answer!’ declares Billie impetuously. ‘We shall have a salon!’
Maude Ivimey smiles. How amusing this girl’s notions always are.
James Ogilvy is circumspect.
‘It is a matter of return on investment, my dear. Indeed, it is your money and as each year goes by you shall receive another three thousand pounds, or thereabouts, being interest on your capital. This will remain in trust, but you may apply for it on an annual basis from now on. However you must be canny – as I am sure you will be,’ he adds, at pains not to patronise. ‘So what we must do is work out the projected income versus projected expenses – and risk.’
A frisson darts through Billie’s mind at the concept of risk and increases her determination to take it.
Maude Ivimey has been confidentially informed of the Thornbury Trust and its connection to Billie, but it is some time before she can come to terms with the whole idea. To lease a shop is one thing – and as a married woman, she may do so under the law – but to have the setup paid for by a child is another. Yet, rational thoughts allow her to see it as an opportunity to develop a business that, with hard work, could provide a more certain future.
With a great deal of reflection, documentation, and caution that it would not do to put all one’s eggs in a single basket, James Ogilvy releases one thousand pounds into the venture. A ten-percent gross profit is to be strived for by the end of the first working year and the accounts will be closely scrutinised. Space is leased in a brand-new building on George Street. It is ideal in both size and position.
The only exterior adornment is a golden insignia, Ivimey. Billie had proposed House of Ivimey but Mrs Ivimey felt uncomfortable – too pretentious – this is Dunedin, not Paris! And her patron agrees the single name looks splendid. ‘No need for fussy detail,’ she states, unanimously appointed as the promoter. ‘All we need now is one glorious model in each of the two front windows and “By appointment only” on the door. I do believe that it may be quite a success!’
It is indeed unique. A shop front – a couture salon! – with daring displays is a new thing in Dunedin and draws attention without the need to advertise. Word of mouth is the best thing and the orders steadily increase, requiring the employment of five more accomplished workers including Billie’s old school friends Sophia and Ellen, and two more sewing machines. Treadles and fingers seldom rest.
Whatever the details of dressmaking – innovative design, skilled cutting, meticulous stitching – James cautions Billie against being involved in the day-to-day running of the business. ‘Too many cooks, etcetera, my dear. I would urge you to stand well back from anything other than concept and promotion.’
Concept and promotion! Just what she enjoys – not tedious details like costing and calculating. With three mornings now being spent as a student teacher for Miss Clayton at Arthur Street School, and one day with Mr Ogilvy, plus her newly defined role with Ivimey, her head whirls. But it is a good whirl, she thinks.
She strolls through the Botanic Gardens with Susannah. They are stylishly over-attired, and although their costumes are frail, their resolve is strong. It is a lovely place for a mild Sunday afternoon and Susannah has brought the picnic basket while Billie contributes the rug. Formal rose beds are coming into bloom and flax specimens glow against the deeper foliage of the rhododendron dell. Although the imported trees are attractive, Billie feels more affinity with the native plants and tries to entice her friend to explore further up the hill.
‘No, thanks,’ says Susannah. ‘If I want native bush it’s freely available up the back of our land – Father’s continually chopping at it. And besides, I’ve had enough exercise today. I vote we spread out here by the creek.’
The picnic and warmth produces a profound sense of inertia. They shed propriety to loosen their stays, lie back on the tartan rug and relax.
He leans closer. She cannot move. Her face is glowing and her lips are parting. The pull of her eyes to his is increasing. She is melting, melding deeply into the earth. Her lips are parting, and she wants him. She wants his kiss. She wants to sink into his skin. She wants his touch and his passion. He is holding her down but he will not take her yet. She is craving him and she is urging him. But then – he is drifting away without looking back. Tinks has gone.
Susannah is prodding her. ‘Billie! Billie, wake up! Whatever are you moaning about? Are you ill? I think you’ve had too much sun – you look exceedingly flushed. You should do up your bodice and become calm. I think we should pack up and start for home.’
Billie gathers herself together, but the dream has set her body on fire and her thoughts into tumult.
Chapter Forty
She cannot forget it, cannot let it be. She seeks him out and suggests he walk with her next Sunday afternoon, ostensibly to view Ivimey salon’s grand window displays. ‘There’s nothing like it in the whole of Dunedin,’ she boasts.
Tinks is amused; he is used to such female games. Bill, ye t’inks ye’re a lady, but ye’re a whore at heart.
She demonstrates the cut of the fanlights, the sheen of the signage, the grandeur of the slowly revolving mannequins. Then on to the quality of their garments: ‘And just look at the costumes, so sleek and soft, a tiny petticoat just showing beneath – all so lovely.’ She droops her head and eyes, then slowly lifts them to Tinks’ face. Their bodies are close and their breaths blend.
But Tinks does not kiss her. Then, as if nothing had come between them, he pulls out his pocket watch. ‘Four o’clock, is it? Well, I’d better be off, so.’
And as he swaggers down the dusty road, her senses course after him.
The weeks pass and all the ruses she can muster will not summon him to appear. She can smell him, she can envisage him, she can thrill to his enigmatic charm. Tinks seems impervious; he knows the effect of nonchalance.
Billie cannot concentrate at home, or at work. Meg cannot comprehend why the girl has left her library book in the fowl house and the eggs in the privy. Mr Ogilvy has occasion to reprimand her over misfiled papers. On one occasion, she walks on past the Law Courts as he turns in, leaving him to stare at her receding form. On another she leaves papers behind. ‘Are you in a dream, girlie? This is not correct procedure. Please focus on the task at hand.’
But focusing is impossible. She is in a state of being, and her mind is elsewhere.
At last she encounters Tinks – he has contrived the meeting to suit himself. They stroll up the Rise. They admire the harbour view.
Soon, without obvious greed, he traces a finger through her hair and it loosens. She lifts her hand to his and he guides her close. Clasps her around the waist and tilts her backwards in a sham swoon. And then pulls her upright and close to his face, his hard blue eyes penetrating hers. Their lips par
t, and for a few long seconds only the heat of their skin betrays life.
Then he tosses her aside. ‘Ah, ye’re gorgeous, Bill, but I’m not good enough for ye. Not good enough a-tall.’ And as she reaches for him in confusion, he turns away saying, ‘’Tis best we leave it, so.’
It is a long, brooding walk home for Billie. She is confused. She is piqued. She wants Tinks, and by crikey she shall have him! But no – what does she care? He is a vain idiot. She shall ignore him when he next tries to interest her.
Chapter Forty-One
February 1875
The sun’s rays sparkle on the bevelled windows of Ivimey, and the displays are alive with reflected light. Three young ladies survey the effect.
‘It’s just super,’ says Susannah.
‘Super,’ agrees Temperance.
‘Super and marvellous!’ cries Billie. ‘But – ’ then she scowls ‘– there is something wrong with those Harper’s models.’
The girls gaze past the solitary mannequin in each of the twin partitions, and up to the fashion plates suspended from the ceilings with imperceptible threads. The full-page prints have been carefully eased from the magazine and glued lightly onto black baize, giving them the appearance of being captured in floating frames.
‘Maybe they are too plain? Do they need a coloured edge?’ suggests Tempe.
‘Certainly not, Tempie – they need to be neutral against the gorgeous dresses on the mannequins. Neutral but also eye-catching. Oh, now I know what it is with the Harpers plates! The models look so – so stiff! That’s it – just look at that lady resting her arm on a mantelpiece and looking so bored! Where is the movement, where is the excitement? For if they have such beautiful clothes, why are they so stiff?’
‘I daresay the artist spent many long hours with the models to get every detail correct,’ says the pragmatic Susannah.
