A Thimbleful of Hope

by Evie Grace

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Evie Grace

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: The Lock and Key of England

  Chapter Two: The House in Camden Crescent

  Chapter Three: Scheele’s Green

  Chapter Four: The Dover Belle

  Chapter Five: Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining

  Chapter Six: Mock Turtle Soup

  Chapter Seven: The White Cliffs of Dover

  Chapter Eight: Marry in White, You’ve Chosen Right

  Chapter Nine: While the Cat’s Away, the Mice Will Play

  Chapter Ten: The Samphire and Fanny Buck

  Chapter Eleven: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

  Chapter Twelve: Dead Reckoning

  Chapter Thirteen: A Most Disagreeable Caller

  Chapter Fourteen: The Truth Will Out

  Chapter Fifteen: Bags o’Surprises

  Chapter Sixteen: Tea with Milk and Plenty of Sugar

  Chapter Seventeen: By Order of the Lord Chancellor

  Chapter Eighteen: A Peculiar State of Affairs

  Chapter Nineteen: The Dover Road

  Chapter Twenty: A Thimbleful of Hope

  Chapter Twenty-One: Shipshape and Bristol Fashion

  Chapter Twenty-Two: When it’s Dark in Dover, it’s Dark All the World Over

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Make Do and Mend

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Looking on the Bright Side

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Turn of the Tide

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Myrtle: A Symbol of Love

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome to Penny Street

  A letter to readers from Evie Grace

  A Fatal Fashion

  Half a Sixpence Extract

  Read the Maids of Kent Trilogy

  The Seaside Angel

  Evie Grace Penny Street

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Evie Grace was born in Kent. Holidays spent with her grandparents, visiting the port of Dover and its famous white cliffs, inspired her to write Violet’s story.

  She loves reading about the history of the Victorian era, and her research for A Thimbleful of Hope ranged from maritime accidents to whitework embroidery and the dangers of the colour green.

  Evie now lives in deepest, darkest Devon with her partner. She has a son and daughter.

  Also by Evie Grace

  Maids of Kent Trilogy

  Half a Sixpence

  Her Mother’s Daughter

  A Place to Call Home

  To my family and friends

  Chapter One

  The Lock and Key of Englandm

  Summer 1864

  ‘Make haste or we’ll miss the event of the year,’ Violet called as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet and checked her appearance in the mirror in the hall. She was pleased with what she saw: a slim figure; white-blonde hair scraped back into plaited loops at the nape of her neck; striking blue eyes; well-defined cheekbones and full lips. The only feature she would change if she could was her nose, which she felt was a little too large for her face.

  ‘Oh, do stop admiring yourself,’ Eleanor teased as she hurried down the stairs. ‘You’re so vain.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Violet said, feeling hurt. ‘I like to look my best, that’s all, little sister.’ She put the emphasis on ‘little’, Eleanor being a head shorter than she was. ‘What do you know about anything? You’re only fifteen.’

  ‘Stop sparring, you two.’ Ottilie joined her sisters from the parlour. ‘You know how it upsets Mama to see you at each other’s throats.’

  Violet backed down – she looked up to Ottilie in more ways than one, being a few inches shorter than her. Her elder sister was twenty to her eighteen, her hair was blonde, but darker like honey, and she wished she could be more like her: self-controlled and content with her lot.

  ‘Where is Mama?’ Violet picked up her parasol from the hallstand.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she heard her mother say. ‘You are overwrought. Perhaps you should remain at home with Eleanor later this evening.’

  ‘And not go to the ball? Oh, Mama!’ Violet turned to her mother who was standing on the bottom step of the staircase with a shawl around her slender shoulders and a fashionable straw hat over her silver hair.

  ‘How can I present you to Dover society when you can’t go about with the decorum that befits a young lady of your age? You’re eighteen.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Violet said, feeling contrite; she had promised to behave herself.

  ‘Are we all ready?’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ the three sisters said in unison, and they stepped outside into the bright June sunshine.

  ‘I wish you a good day, ladies,’ Wilson said, holding the door open. Their butler was an older gentleman in his fifties who had been with the Rayfields for as long as Violet could remember. He was well spoken and always smartly dressed, with his hair oiled and fingernails kept blunt and clean.

  Violet glanced up at the house as he closed the door behind them. It was one of ten four-storey yellow brick houses that ran in a terrace between New Bridge and Wellesley Road – everyone who called on them acknowledged that their home in Camden Crescent was one of the best addresses in Dover.

  Having put up their parasols, they began to walk in the direction of the seafront, skirting the lawns where a military band was playing next to a crowded marquee. They passed the war memorial dedicated to the soldiers of the 60th Rifles who were lost in the Indian Rebellion, then crossed the road to reach the sweeping curve of the promenade.

  Violet couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Their town had been invaded by hundreds – no, thousands – of people from all over the kingdom who were cheering and waving flags as they looked out at the yachts in Dover Bay. There were other vessels too: skiffs; herring boats; galleys and pleasure boats.

  She hastened on ahead of her mother and sisters, but Mama soon called her back.

  ‘Violet, what have I said?’

  ‘That I should behave with decorum,’ she sighed, but she didn’t think her mother had heard her above the calls of the street sellers at their stalls, offering bags of shrimp, pots of winkles, confectionery and ginger beer.

  ‘Buy, buy, buy!’

  ‘Boo’iful whelks – a penny a lot. You’ll never taste better!’

  ‘Strawberries ripe! The best you can find in all of Kent!’

  The Rayfield ladies wended their way through the crowds, using their parasols to fend off those who were in their cups, until they reached the shingle and emerged on to the beach between the rows of sea bathing machines and herring boats.

  Tasting salt on her lips and with the scent of tar, fish and seaweed in her nostrils, Violet looked towards the sea where the rowing boat crews – four-oared galleys – were preparing for their race. The marshals were lining several boats up at the start, but they were having trouble with them drifting on the current. As soon as one was deemed ready, another had to be called back, and it took some minutes before all the coxes put their hands down, indicating that they were ready.

  ‘That’s Mr Noble.’ Eleanor pointed towards one of the galleys which had the name ‘Mary Ann’ painted along her side. ‘He rows for Dover Rowing Club.’

  ‘Eleanor, what have I told you about it being rude to point?’ Mama said. ‘Yes, that’s him with the dark hair, I believe, and his cousin is number two.’

  Violet couldn’t see his face at first, just the black curls tumbling from beneath his cap, and the width of his shoulders as he rested his oar flat on the surface of the water. He was facing the cox, with the rest of the crew dressed in royal blue and white flannel shirts behind him. As if he’d become aware of her wat
ching him, he looked straight at her and smiled, making her heart skip a beat. She had never seen anyone quite so handsome and self-assured.

  ‘Then we must cheer them on,’ Eleanor went on, nudging Violet’s arm to draw her attention back to their conversation.

  ‘But we have never been introduced,’ Ottilie countered.

  ‘They were at the launch of the Dover Belle – Uncle Edward shook his hand,’ Eleanor said. ‘Mr Noble is the son of the master of Pa’s ship.’

  ‘The Dover Belle belongs to our father and Uncle Edward,’ Ottilie said, correcting her. Violet smiled – it wasn’t that Ottilie liked to be right. She had to be right. ‘William’s elder brother is junior engineer.’

  ‘The Nobles are a sea-faring family,’ Mama said. ‘Your father has known Captain Noble for many years.’

  Mr Rayfield had started out as a shipping agent before investing in the railway and buying the Dover Belle with Mr Chittenden – whom they called uncle, although he wasn’t related to them by blood.

  ‘Come forward,’ the Mary Ann’s coxswain called out.

  There was a bang, making Violet almost jump out of her skin.

  ‘Fraidy cat,’ Eleanor laughed. ‘It’s only the starter.’

  As the crews took their first strokes, sending the galleys through the water, Violet spotted the smoking mouth of a miniature cannon which was perched on the pier, and felt rather foolish.

  The galleys made progress towards the buoy at Castle jetty, the coxes’ heads jerking with every stroke. The Mary Ann was in the lead until one of her crew caught a crab in the choppier waves further out.

  ‘Long and strong!’

  ‘Quick through the water!’

  The coxes yelled orders and encouragement, and the Mary Ann rounded the buoy, gradually catching up then edging ahead and taking up the lead once more.

  ‘Keep the fire!’

  ‘They’re winning!’ Violet stood on tiptoes for a better view, willing the Mary Ann on as the boats set out on a second circuit. Returning towards the finish, the sound of the oars clunking in the rowlocks and the splash at the catch grew louder. The cheering grew louder too as the Mary Ann crossed the finish line, winning by half a length.

  ‘They’ve only gorn and done it,’ somebody said from beside her. ‘Them Dover boys ’ave taken that race for the second year in a row. There’ll be some sore ’eads tomorrer.’

  ‘I ’ope the new Lord Warden’s impressed with what ’e’s seen so far,’ another said.

  ‘Well, I reckon this is the best regatta ever, and Lord Palmerston should be delighted with the show we’ve put on for ‘im. What’s next anyway? Ah, the tub race. There, I’ve answered me own question.’

  Violet noticed how Mama looked askance at their neighbours. She wondered what she thought of Mr Noble who was wading towards the beach, holding his arms up and grinning in triumph as the crowd greeted him and the crew – our boys, even though they were all over twenty-one – like heroes.

  Was it possible that Pa could be persuaded to introduce Mr Noble to her so she could dance with him at the ball?

  The Rayfields stayed on to watch the novelty race where men crewed tin bathtubs, willow coracles and rafts made from logs and leather bags. The winner was the only craft to make it to the finish line, the rest undoubtedly capsizing, taking on water or spinning in circles.

  When the splashing, shrieks and laughter had died down, Mama suggested that they return home.

  ‘So soon?’ Eleanor said, sounding disappointed.

  ‘It’s the fashion to arrive late for a ball, but not so late that it is over by the time one gets there. We’re booked to dine at nine with the Chittendens and Mr Brooke.’

  ‘We’re going to meet the mysterious Mr Brooke at last,’ Violet said.

  ‘There’s nothing mysterious about him,’ Mama said. ‘He’s a new acquaintance of your father’s, a gentleman with whom he wishes to do business.’

  ‘Will we have to dance with him?’ Ottilie asked.

  ‘If he marks your card, then yes, you will dance with him – with good grace.’

  ‘He’s more than likely to be married,’ Violet said. ‘He’ll bring his wife.’

  ‘If he doesn’t, there’s something wrong with him,’ Eleanor said. ‘He will have pimples or a squint, or both. You know, I don’t think I could marry someone who looked in two directions at the same time.’

  ‘This is all speculation. All I know is that Mr Brooke is over thirty, unmarried and a gentleman of substance,’ Mama said. ‘Come along now.’

  They turned and walked back up the beach in the direction of the town which sat in the valley of the River Dour, between the towering chalk cliffs. The fortifications of the Western Heights stood to the west, and Dover Castle to the east.

  Pa said that Dover was a place where anyone with a little capital and an ounce of common sense could make their fortune, what with the two railway companies competing to install tracks and tunnels and build new stations, and the extension of Admiralty Pier. Violet assumed that Mr Brooke was hobnobbing with her father, in the hope of being introduced to the men of influence among Dover society.

  Having arrived home, Violet retired to the parlour to add the final touches to the train of her gown: a layer of muslin over ivory silk. The butterflies she had embroidered in the latest ombre threads seemed to flutter up from the flowers in a cloud of colour, as she stood up and laid the gown across the back of the chaise.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Eleanor said from behind her. ‘All the gentlemen will fall in love with you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You must wish you were coming with us.’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘I’m quite happy to stay at home and read until Mama decides I’m old enough to come out. I’m not interested in dancing and the company of gentlemen.’

  ‘According to Mama, everyone who is anyone in Dover will be there.’

  ‘Which is an even better reason for not going. There’ll be the old families, the county set who look down on the Rayfields because our father is a self-made man.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ Ottilie said, joining the conversation. ‘Pa is a gentleman of good standing. He’s almost one of them.’

  ‘I don’t expect to meet my future husband at my very first ball. You didn’t, did you, Ottilie? Or perhaps you did,’ Violet said, noticing how her sister blushed.

  ‘You don’t have to marry straight away – you can have intrigues and love affairs,’ Ottilie said quickly – rather too quickly, Violet thought with a smile.

  ‘You’ll have to settle for a husband one day,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘Who will he be? Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief?’

  ‘Or a shipping agent who organises the passage of cargo from every corner of the Empire, or a baronet or a prince.’ Violet giggled. ‘Where are you going, Eleanor?’

  ‘Off to the kitchen to fetch cherries, so we can count the stones to foretell your future.’

  ‘Don’t bring them anywhere near my dress,’ Violet warned. ‘The juice will ruin it.’

  ‘All right then – another time,’ Eleanor sighed. ‘I wish I could write each of you the perfect husband.’

  ‘He mustn’t feature in one of your wilder stories,’ Ottilie said sternly. ‘He must be kind, reliable and handsome.’

  ‘And rich,’ Violet contributed.

  ‘To that end, you must dance well to impress,’ Eleanor said. ‘You can remember the figures of the Lancers Quadrille?’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ Violet said, panicking. ‘What if I find myself glued to the spot? What if my mind goes blank?’

  ‘Just follow your partner and listen to the master of ceremonies prompting the dancers,’ Ottilie said. ‘Forward and back, forward again and turn.’

  Eleanor offered Violet both hands and they turned a full circle, then another, until they were giddy with laughter.

  ‘You see? It’s coming back to you!’ Eleanor exclaimed, throwing herself down on one of the overstuffed ar
mchairs to catch her breath while Violet retrieved her gown. She picked off a stray gold thread which had come from one of the tassels on the velvet drapes. When Pa had bought the house about twenty years ago, Mama had furnished the parlour in the French style, but the red, green and gold patterned carpet was fading and some of the buttons on the chairs had fallen off.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs and I’ll help you finish getting ready,’ Eleanor said, getting up again as the gilt and enamel clock on the mantelpiece chimed six.

  Holding her gown very carefully, Violet followed her sisters up the two flights of stairs to the bedroom she shared with Ottilie. Eleanor laced her corset up tightly then helped her into her gown and began fastening the hooks and eyes at the back.

  ‘You’ll have to breathe in,’ she said.

  ‘I am!’ Violet gasped.

  ‘Try harder. Oh, I’ve done it.’

  Violet didn’t mind that her dress was too tight; according to the magazines Mama read, close-fitting bodices were quite the rage.

  ‘I don’t know how you’ll be able to dance like that,’ Eleanor said. ‘You’ll fall into a faint by the end of the first set, you mark my words.’

  ‘There will be plenty of gentlemen willing to catch her,’ Ottilie said with an air of superiority. She bit her lips to bring colour to them, and Violet did the same. Ottilie borrowed Mama’s sapphire pendant to match her pale blue tulle and silk dress, while Violet wore her grandmother’s string of sea pearls.

  They were ready, and she could hardly wait for the cab – a brougham with an extra pair of foldaway seats – to turn up and whisk them off to their destination.

  Dusk was creeping in when they arrived outside the venue in Snargate Street which was chock-a-block with carriages: cabriolets, britzkas and even a clarence. Pa, who was wearing his black dress coat and trousers, waistcoat and patent leather boots, helped Ottilie and Mama down from the cab.

  ‘You look beautiful, my dear daughter,’ he said, his eyes filling with pride as he offered Violet his arm.

  ‘And you look very smart,’ she said, reserving judgement on his mutton chop side whiskers and moustache, the style he’d adopted from Prince Albert.