by Evie Grace
‘Perhaps she has run out of steam or lost her sails to the wind,’ Mama said.
Violet recalled the story of how the Dover Belle had run out of coal towards the end of her maiden voyage, and the previous captain, fearing that he would miss the deadline and that the fruit he was carrying would spoil, had ordered the furniture and crates to be burned instead to move the giant pistons of the steam packet. She had always wondered if Pa had been entirely fair, removing him from his employ for his oversight in carrying too little coal on that occasion, but he said that business was business, and he’d had to make an example of the man.
‘She’s a good ship, reliable in all weathers – she always makes good time even with the wind and tide against her, which is why it is a little out of the ordinary. She has never turned up this far behind schedule before.’
‘Captain Noble is a fine master,’ Mama said.
‘He’s someone on whom we can depend to bring the ship, her cargo and crew safely home, which is why Edward and I gave him his commission. Let’s bide our time. I have every expectation that in the next day or two she’ll have returned with all hands on board, and I’ll be able to sleep easy at night.’
Her poor father was never at ease, Violet reflected, always available for business and any difficulties which arose, such as sodden consignments of tea, rotten fruit, theft and mutinous crew, but a missing ship? That was different, another level of concern, and she recalled William talking of his family and wondered how worried he must be, knowing that the Dover Belle was delayed somewhere out on the open sea.
After dinner, the three sisters retired to bed: Eleanor slept in a room across the landing from Ottilie and Violet, but they left the doors open so they could talk without disturbing the rest of the household if they wished. Sometimes, Eleanor would wander in to join them and end up sleeping beneath Violet’s coverlet, if Mama didn’t come up to chase her out.
Tonight, she perched on the edge of Violet’s bed, writing in her notebook while Violet embroidered and Ottilie read her letter by candlelight.
Violet rested her hoop on her lap and threaded her needle with woollen yarn, ready to fill in the outline of a pattern she’d sketched on the linen.
‘What does Jane say in her letter?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Nothing much. She asks how we are, and tells me of how her little dog has had puppies. Eleanor, you should write your own letters, not take vicarious pleasure in hearing about other people’s. I expect Jane would like to hear from you.’
‘I don’t have time to write letters,’ Eleanor said.
‘I can’t believe you’re still scribbling,’ Violet said.
‘I’m in the middle of a story. In your opinion, is death fair retribution for a gentleman who mistreats a young lady?’
‘He can hardly be described as a gentleman in such a situation,’ Ottilie countered.
‘It depends on the context. Look at Uncle Edward – he could be called a gentleman for opening the door for us, but I don’t like where he puts his hands when he follows you into the room. What has this man done to offend?’ Violet asked.
‘He has tricked her, pretending he is without attachment when he is already engaged to be married.’
‘Then he’s too mean to be the hero of your story,’ Ottilie said.
‘He is the villain. I think the lady in question’s brother will call him out and kill him in a duel. Or is that too much?’
‘He has betrayed not one, but two ladies,’ Violet pointed out.
‘I can’t kill him twice,’ Eleanor said, her voice light with mischief. ‘Although I could prolong his agony.’
‘Then that is your answer,’ Ottilie said.
‘What happens to the ladies he deceived?’ Violet asked. ‘Won’t they both grieve for him?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t got that far.’ Eleanor chewed on the end of her pencil, a bad habit that Miss Whiteway had tried to break by dipping the pencil in bitter aloes before telling her she would die from eating the lead when the first ploy failed.
‘I wouldn’t grieve – I’d think he’d received his just deserts,’ Ottilie said. ‘As for the ladies, their fate depends on whether or not the villain’s left a stain on their reputation in the eyes of society. If he has, they’ll be cast out and doomed to spend the rest of their lives as spinsters.’
‘That’s a monsterful story, Ottilie. Now I have too much to write about!’ Eleanor said. ‘I’ll set it on a ship sailing the high seas.’
‘That seems a little insensitive, considering what Pa was talking about earlier,’ Ottilie said.
‘The Dover Belle … I wonder if she’s been taken over by pirates.’
‘Your imagination as always runs wild. The most likely explanation is that she’s been becalmed,’ Violet said, her thoughts flitting back to William. ‘When the winds pick up, they’ll soon blow her home.’
‘One dance with an apprentice engineer, and you think you know all about steamships,’ Ottilie teased.
‘Oh, Ottilie,’ Violet sighed, ‘I danced with Mr Brooke as well. And John. And William’s cousin.’ She had danced until her feet had ached.
‘That Mr Brooke is a most peculiar gentleman, so preoccupied with trying to impress that he doesn’t show his true character,’ Ottilie said.
‘It’s natural for a person to attempt to fit in with company and make themselves agreeable,’ Violet said. ‘Pa was trying equally hard to impress Mr Brooke. I have to say I felt a little sorry for him – I thought I detected a hint of sadness in his eyes.’
‘Perhaps the reason he isn’t married is because he’s loved and lost,’ Eleanor said, before regaling them with increasingly outrageous stories of what might have happened to Mr Brooke during his various affairs of the heart, until Violet didn’t know how she would face him if their paths crossed for a second time.
‘Go back to your room. Quickly,’ she said, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘It’s Mama.’
It was too late. Their mother was upon them, a lantern in her hand.
‘Have you any idea what the time is?’ she said wearily.
Eleanor shook her head while her sisters remained silent.
‘It is past midnight.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Eleanor said, scurrying away.
Mama’s voice softened. ‘Goodnight, my dear daughters. Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight, Mama,’ they said.
Violet leaned across to the bedside table which stood between the two beds and blew out the candle. The flame expired, leaving the scent of smoke curling through the air.
Chapter Three
Scheele’s Green
Three more weeks passed and there was no definite news of the Dover Belle, only reports that she had left the port of Ponta Delgada on 31 May in fair weather with her cargo and several passengers. She had twelve hundred miles to cover en route to England, and Pa had surmised that she had perhaps broken passage along the north-west coast of Spain to avoid the tail of a hurricane. When Violet – out of her private concern for William – had pressed her father on the matter, he had confirmed that Captain Noble was a master mariner with many years’ experience who wouldn’t endanger his ship and everyone on it by putting speed before safety.
Mr Jones and his team of decorators came to the house to paint and hang wallpaper in Ma’s bedroom and the dining room. The cat was confined to the kitchen for the week, and Cook wasn’t happy because he left his pawmarks in the dough that she’d left to rest before rolling it out for an apple and cinnamon pie. Although Mama grumbled about the workmen being in the way, the work was soon completed.
Once they had left, Mama invited Violet into her boudoir.
‘What do you think?’ she asked as Violet scanned the freshly painted skirting, the walls covered with the finest paper, the new curtains – or rather the old ones dyed and rehung – and the floral summer coverlet spread across the bed. The carpet had been moved from the dining room, cut to size and the threads knotted to make a fringed edging, something Pa
had insisted on, because – so he said – he hadn’t forgotten how his parents and grandparents had struggled to make ends meet. Waste not, want not, had been their motto.
‘Well?’ Mama said.
‘It’s very green. In a good way,’ Violet replied quickly, not wanting to offend her. If Miss Whiteway was right about green being a poison, then there was enough to kill the whole of Dover in this single room.
The cat – a Turkish angora with a fluffy white coat and a ginger splash across his face – looked up from the bedspread, yawned and stretched out one paw. He stared at Violet with his odd eyes – one amber, one blue – without blinking.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ Mama went on. ‘Your father is sending word to my sister and your cousin Jane, the Chittendens and Mr Brooke, inviting them to dine with us tomorrow.’
Violet turned away and looked out of the window. There were two ladies in finery and feathers walking behind an older man in a suit and stovepipe hat, and the vicar of St Mary’s taking a brisk stroll by the sea. Several horses and carriages trotted smartly along the road, overtaking a slow, plodding cob pulling a cart laden with pots and pans, and scrap iron.
‘I’m waiting for your opinion.’ Mama’s voice cut into her musings.
‘Oh, I’ve said … yes, I like it very much,’ she said hastily, looking back towards her mother who had one eyebrow raised in question. ‘The green.’
‘I was asking you to help me decide between the duck and the beef.’ Mama smiled. ‘Sometimes I despair of you.’
‘The beef then,’ she said. ‘It’s my favourite.’
‘The hostess shouldn’t choose the dish that she prefers – she must put her guests’ preferences first. Oh dear, you still have much to learn about the art of running a household. Now I must speak to Cook about the menu. Go and tell Miss Whiteway that her presence will be required at dinner tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Miss Whiteway and her sisters were delighted at the news, and the following day, they finished lessons at four as the aroma of roast beef and suet pudding began to fill the air. Three hours later, the sound of the doorbell and voices announced their guests’ arrival.
‘Oh, I’m not ready,’ Ottilie wailed.
‘You couldn’t look any more perfect,’ Violet said with a twinge of envy at the sight of her fashionable scarlet gown with its sloping shoulders. ‘Make haste.’
Ottilie made one last adjustment to her dark blonde ringlets before following Violet and Eleanor downstairs. The butler had shown the Chittendens and Mr Brooke into the drawing room. Their aunt and cousin Jane arrived seconds later.
Aunt Felicity, a widow who had cast off her weeds many years before, was three years Mama’s senior, and similar in appearance except that her crow’s feet were deeper, and the lines at the side of her mouth more marked. She was wearing a blush satin dress which didn’t suit her grey hair and pale complexion, Violet thought, while Jane – who was twenty-one – looked the same as ever, dressed in brown damask with no other adornment, neither a border of lace, nor a flounce, and with her auburn hair up in a bun.
‘Arvin, you have met everyone apart from my wife’s sister, Mrs Hewitt and her daughter Miss Hewitt, and our youngest daughter, Miss Eleanor Rayfield,’ Pa said.
‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies,’ Mr Brooke said before turning to Mama who had entered the room. Mr Brooke wasn’t wearing black and white evening dress like the other men of the party. Instead, he sported a white shirt, striped silk waistcoat and cravat, and pale pantaloons – he had left his blue tailcoat and tasselled walking stick with Wilson. ‘Good evening, Mrs Rayfield.’
‘I’m so glad you could come. You must meet our daughters’ governess – she speaks a little French. Miss Whiteway, have you found the sheet music I asked for?’
‘Yes, Mrs Rayfield,’ she said, sorting through a sheaf of papers on top of the piano.
‘In that case, leave it there ready and join us.’
Miss Whiteway frowned, and Violet wondered if she was annoyed at being displayed like an ornament. She hadn’t considered it before, but Mama’s insistence that she meet their guests seemed quite demeaning. Hadn’t Miss Whiteway any friends of her own? She wasn’t sure. She did leave the house on her days off, but Violet had no idea where she went, except that she had family in Dorset whom she visited twice a year.
‘Let us move to the dining room, my dear.’ Pa walked across to his wife. ‘You may do the honours and open the door with a flourish, so our guests may feast their eyes on the new decoration.’
‘Oh, how exciting.’ Mrs Chittenden moved up to Mama’s side with Aunt Felicity.
Mama rested her hand on the doorknob, turned it and pushed the door open to reveal the updated room.
‘It’s a truly marvellous sight to behold,’ Mr Brooke said after a prolonged exhalation of breath. ‘You have an excellent eye.’
‘It looks very expensive,’ Aunt Felicity grumbled. ‘There are people with more money than sense.’
‘When one has money, one can afford to show off one’s good taste. It is Scheele’s green, all the rage in London apparently.’ Mama smiled, used to her sister’s criticism.
‘It’s the same as ours—’ Uncle Edward began.
‘It is quite different,’ Mrs Chittenden interrupted. ‘Why is it that gentlemen can’t understand the subtleties of interior decoration?’
‘It is beyond me,’ Mama said. ‘Please, take your seats. The places are marked with cards – Violet drew the flowers and Eleanor wrote your names.’
Violet blushed, not wishing to be renowned for her hasty designs inspired by the roses in the garden.
‘They are gifted young ladies,’ Mr Brooke said, finding his place between Mama and Ottilie who was seated opposite John. Violet whispered to Jane beside her.
‘Your recent letters have been very entertaining. How is your dear little dog and her puppies?’
‘Puppies?’ Jane chuckled. ‘That isn’t possible – my Ruffles is a boy dog.’
‘Then why did you invent such a tale?’
‘I haven’t sent a single letter since I wrote to thank your mother for my birthday gift.’
‘How very odd. Ottilie read your letter out to me and Eleanor the other day …’
‘You must have been mistaken,’ Jane said.
‘Yes, you’re right. How silly of me …’ Violet looked across to where her sister was engaged in conversation with John and Mr Brooke. She had lied. She couldn’t believe it. Her honest, straightforward elder sister had told an untruth, but why?
When everyone had taken their seats, Pa said grace before Wilson poured drinks, and the maid brought the first course into the dining room. May looked weary, Violet thought – she’d been on her feet all day, cleaning and blacking the fireplaces.
Violet finished her soup before they went on to the next course of roast beef, suet pudding and gravy with three side dishes of vegetables. She talked to Jane and eavesdropped on other conversations at the same time.
‘This is formidable,’ Mr Brooke exclaimed. ‘You have really pushed the boat out, Mrs Rayfield.’
‘Why, thank you,’ Mama said. ‘I will relay your compliments to our housekeeper – Mrs Garling, and to Cook. The servants have taken all day to prepare.’
Pa picked up his glass and swirled the last dregs of his wine around the bottom. ‘The tide seems to have gone out – more claret, Wilson.’
The meal continued with desserts, jams and jellies, cake and preserved fruits and coffee before everyone retired to the drawing room for the entertainment.
‘My daughters will sing and play the piano,’ Pa said jovially. ‘It will be good to see some return on the money I’ve spent on music masters and the like.’
Violet was thrilled at the chance of singing with Ottilie, as Eleanor accompanied them on the pianoforte before duetting with Miss Whiteway.
‘Oh bravo! Bravo!’ Mr Brooke clapped and cheered.
‘This isn’t a music hall,�
� Aunt Felicity muttered disapprovingly.
‘One should give credit where it’s due,’ Uncle Edward said. ‘The young ladies play and sing beautifully.’
‘We will sing “Leonore, thy voice is music to mine ear” next,’ Violet said as the final chords of ‘The Hazel Dell’ died away.
‘I think the singers should rest their voices for a while,’ Aunt Felicity said. ‘A piece of music allows for a break in conversation, but more than one or two songs in a row is tedious.’ Violet frowned, and her aunt continued, ‘In my opinion, the level of regard that a musician has for one’s audience is in direct proportion to the excellence of their playing.’
‘You do have a point.’ Mama touched her temple. ‘Ladies, we should have an interlude – I have rather a headache.’
‘Oh dear, is there anything we can do?’ Mr Brooke said.
‘No, I will be fine in a while,’ Mama said, and Violet went to sit down beside her, worrying that she looked rather pale, but she soon revived when Miss Whiteway spoke out of turn. Mr Brooke had asked her if she enjoyed being a governess, and she had mentioned that she would have preferred to have had the opportunity to become a doctor or engineer.
Both Mama’s and Aunt Felicity’s eyebrows shot up, and Mrs Chittenden’s mouth dropped open.
‘You mean you wish you’d been born a man?’ Aunt Felicity exclaimed.
‘No, not at all. I mean that I would like women to have the same freedoms and chances as men.’
‘Oh, how ridiculous. We all have our places in society, men and women in separate spheres, each supporting the other,’ Mama said. ‘My mother brought me up with traditional values – they have done me no harm, and I wish to raise my daughters in the same way. They will make good marriages – what’s wrong with being provided for, in return for making the home a place of glory and repose for one’s husband? Look at my hands … they aren’t chapped and worn like Cook’s, and I’m grateful to Mr Rayfield for that.’
