A Thimbleful of Hope

by Evie Grace

  Glancing down towards the street, she watched a child, barefoot and dressed in rags, being chased away by a constable for selling matches, and she recalled the filthy urchin who’d accompanied the chimney sweep to unblock one of the fireplaces not long after they’d moved in.

  She sighed – she’d asked Arvin if he could contribute to some of the ladies’ charitable efforts for the poor of Dover, but he’d refused, saying that people had to help themselves. She’d felt sore about it, but what could she do? She had no money of her own. Everything they had belonged to her husband.

  Eventually, when it was time for John to take his leave, Violet showed him out and Ottilie stayed on for tea.

  ‘I notice that John’s beard has grown at last,’ Violet said, smiling as they sat in the parlour with cucumber sandwiches and ginger cake. ‘Do you remember how Uncle Edward used to make fun of him?’

  ‘The scanty herbage? Oh yes. I don’t care for John’s father’s opinion. We’re making plans. I don’t know quite how it will work out but I’m hopeful. John and I have accepted that our parents will never give their blessing – they’re too far apart, even though Pa has apparently made overtures to Uncle Edward to try to restore their friendship.’

  ‘Has he really? Has he paid what he owed?’

  ‘In part. He offered Uncle Edward shares in his partnership with Arvin, but he turned it down. He won’t have anything to do with either of them, and he wants money in his hand, not shares.’

  ‘Arvin hasn’t mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Pa wouldn’t keep secrets from him – they are bosom friends. They keep saying that business is brisk and on the rise, which suggests that Pa will soon be able to pay Uncle Edward back in full, and then your troubles will be over, Ottilie.’

  ‘We’re preparing for the worst. John is working all hours for his father, putting as much money as possible aside so that one day we can move away. It grieves me to do this behind Pa’s back, but we have no choice.’

  ‘What about Mama?’ Violet felt guilty at not having asked after her before.

  ‘She hardly knows night from day. I won’t be made to feel bad about it.’

  ‘You’ll write to me and Eleanor?’

  ‘Of course I will. This isn’t going to happen immediately – John and I have a long way to go.’ Ottilie looked up at the clock as it whirred then chimed four o’clock. ‘I should go home.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you, but I won’t stop,’ Violet said. ‘A breath of fresh air will do me good.’

  She and Ottilie walked to Camden Crescent with their parasols up to divert the seagulls which were flying low along the seafront, diving at the stallholders who were selling off the last of their wares for the day.

  ‘Cockles and mussels – buy an ’a‘porth.’

  ‘Chestnuts all ’ot, penny a lot.’

  ‘Dover sole! No ornery flounders.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stop for a while?’ Ottilie asked when they reached the house.

  ‘Another time.’ She would have loved to have stayed, but she needed to go back to supervise Mrs Davis who was supposed to be preparing for visitors the following day – the vicar’s wife and some of her ladies. ‘Tell Mama and Eleanor that I’ll call in soon.’

  ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Violet,’ Ottilie said, before wishing her farewell and disappearing into the house.

  Violet walked slowly back along Marine Drive, taking in the panorama of the sea and sky, illuminated in the soft golden light of late afternoon. A steam packer was on its way towards France, its funnels pouring smoke, and closer to the shore, a fisherman was casting his net from a small skiff. She hesitated, feeling a strange pang of yearning when she spotted a group of children playing a game of dare with the waves.

  ‘Miss Rayfield? Violet, it is you.’

  She turned to find William smiling and doffing his hat.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he went on.

  ‘Hello, Mr Noble. It’s Mrs Brooke now,’ she corrected him gently, at which his expression grew serious. Was it possible that he felt the same sense of regret? ‘It’s lovely to see you.’ She didn’t know what else to say as she tried to slow her racing heart.

  ‘The feeling is mutual,’ he said. ‘You married your father’s business associate.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She found that she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Are you still working at the Packet Yard?’

  ‘I’m junior engineer on the Samphire, one of the mail packets.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Your mother must be very proud.’

  ‘Oh, she is.’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if his sweetheart was equally proud of him. She was sure he had to be walking out with someone. He must have had many admirers to choose from.

  ‘I read that you were one of the winning crew at the regatta again this year.’

  ‘My heart hasn’t been in the rowing recently, but I couldn’t let the side down. My cousin was right – getting back on the water helped me find a sense of perspective after everything that’s happened, but you know all about that.’ He gave her a baleful smile. ‘Let me assure you that whatever I feel about your father, I will never hold a grudge against you, Violet. You are entirely blameless.’ His face turning pink, he changed the subject. ‘I wish you every happiness.’

  ‘As I do you,’ she said, echoing his sentiments. ‘Good day, William.’

  ‘Good day.’ He turned abruptly and walked away. She watched him striding towards the town until he disappeared, her brief joy at seeing him again crushed by a deep sadness.

  Afraid that Pa would find out, Violet had mixed feelings about having encouraged the course of true love, but John and Ottilie met the following week and the next, and Violet soon became complacent. Her plan had worked very well, she concluded as she threaded a piece of pure white silk through her needle, but the sound of a stick rapping at a door alerted her.

  Who could it be? She wasn’t expecting any callers and the servants weren’t due back until late that evening. She got up quickly, smoothed down her skirts and headed downstairs. Having checked the parlour door was firmly shut, she opened the front door to find her father on the doorstep.

  ‘Pa? What are you doing here? I mean, what a lovely surprise.’

  He touched his hat and her palms grew damp. What was she supposed to do? Invite him in?

  ‘It seems you have forgotten, Violet,’ he said, smiling. ‘Have I woken you from a nap? You seem flustered.’

  ‘No, I was—’

  ‘Never mind,’ he interrupted. ‘I should have reminded you – there’s a consignment of wine at the warehouse. Arvin wanted me to supervise the tasting he’d had planned before he left for France. You must come along to represent your husband – it will make a good impression on the buyers.’

  ‘Who will be there?’ she asked, feeling daunted.

  ‘It’s a private event, by invitation only, for the mayor, hoteliers, grocers, publicans and some shopkeepers from further afield.’ He paused. ‘Did I hear voices? Oh, my dear, you have company. You should have said.’

  ‘No, Pa,’ she said quickly, praying that John and Ottilie wouldn’t reveal their presence. ‘It’s only the servants,’ she lied. ‘Let me go and change into something more suitable.’ She began to push the door closed. ‘I’ll meet you at the quay.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’ Pa held out his hand to stop the door. ‘I’d rather hoped to make an entrance with you on my arm.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t come dressed like this.’

  ‘The mayor is announcing the event officially open at three o’clock. It is now’ – he checked his pocket watch, a gold timepiece which was attached to his coat by an Albert chain – ‘five minutes past two. There’s plenty of time.’ He pushed past her. ‘I’ll wait in the parlour.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ she said hurriedly. ‘The servants are spring-cleaning – the carpet has been taken up and th
e curtains and antimacassars sent for laundering.’

  Pa frowned. ‘It’s rather unusual to be spring-cleaning in the autumn.’

  ‘I want everything to be perfect for when Arvin gets back.’

  ‘I knew you’d make him a good wife – you’ve taken after your mother,’ Pa said gruffly.

  ‘This way,’ she said, showing him into the dining room. ‘Take a seat – the newspapers are on the sideboard.’

  He thanked her, and she left the room, promising to be back shortly. On her way past the parlour, she knocked softly at the door.

  ‘Ottilie!’ she whispered as she opened it. Her sister peered out with John standing right behind her, looking red-faced as he fastened the top button on his shirt. ‘It’s Pa – I knew Arvin had arranged a wine-tasting, but he didn’t give me the date and I certainly didn’t realise that I was expected to attend. I’m sorry, but I must make haste. Another time.’

  ‘We’ll take our leave,’ John said, tying his cravat. ‘We’ll use the side door. Thank you, Violet.’

  ‘I’ll help you with your dress and let myself out later,’ Ottilie offered.

  Within twenty minutes, Violet was ready, dressed in iridescent blue taffeta and lace, the skirts so full she could barely move, and her corset so tight she could hardly breathe. She used the glove stretcher to put on her new silk gloves while Ottilie placed her matching bonnet on her head and laid her shawl across her shoulders.

  ‘Will I do?’ she said.

  ‘You look wonderful.’ Ottilie kissed her cheek. ‘Oh, now I have disturbed your bonnet.’

  ‘No, leave it. I must hurry. I’ll see you when I visit Mama.’

  Violet left Ottilie in her room and went downstairs to meet her father in the dining room where he looked up from his paper.

  ‘Your servants are like a herd of elephants,’ he observed, standing up. ‘You are ready?’

  She nodded, and they left the house, walking briskly along Marine Parade to reach Commercial Quay, and the forest of masts and funnels of the boats in the Pent and Bason.

  ‘Mind your backs!’ warned one of the porters as a batch of crates came swinging across on a crane from one of the ships. They moved away as the crane lowered the crates, and a team of men removed them from the sling, pushing them away on a horse-drawn trolley into one of the warehouses, while the customs officer stood watching. Violet turned to her left and spotted a small crowd of smartly dressed gentlemen standing outside another warehouse, a sign outside it reading ‘Brooke and Rayfield: Importers of the Finest Quality Wines’. There was a line of bunting fluttering above the double doors which were wide open.

  ‘What do you think, Mrs Brooke?’ Pa said, taking her arm and steering her inside.

  The first section of the warehouse was decked out with tables – wine tables, ornately inlaid with rosewood, ebony and walnut, with silver spittoons on top. There were waiters lined up, dressed in black and white uniforms holding trays of glasses.

  ‘I’m very impressed,’ she replied. ‘It is a far more elaborate occasion than I imagined it would be.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. It’s taken me a lot of time and effort.’ Pa introduced her to the guests before the mayor, dressed for the occasion in his robes and chain, made his address, standing on an upturned half-barrel to give him extra height and authority.

  Violet’s heart filled with pride at what her father and husband had achieved as the mayor announced that the tasting could begin. The waiters would bring glasses and pour the wines which would be clearly labelled. The guests would have a printed list, so they could write notes and place their orders at the end of the event.

  ‘This is going swimmingly,’ Pa said as the buyers began to taste. ‘It will be the talk of the town.’

  Violet saw the landlord from the Cause is Altered inn tip his head back, swill wine around his throat and noisily spit it out.

  ‘Ugh! Did you say that was a claret?’ He came across to where Violet was waiting with her father. ‘Mr Rayfield, this ’as gorn off.’

  ‘Oh no. This is a new consignment. Mr Brooke – an expert vintner – sent it directly from one of the great cellars in Bordeaux.’

  ‘It’s vinegar, only fit for sousing mackerel.’

  ‘Please, sir. Keep your voice down. Allow others to make their own judgement. What do you think of the white?’ Pa called one of the waiters over. ‘Pour the one from the Médoc. You’ll find it most agreeable, I’m sure.’ He muttered aside to Violet, ‘I wish Arvin was here – he has the gift of the gab.’

  ‘You taste it, sir,’ the landlord said. ‘Give me your opinion.’

  Pa was forced into sipping at a glass of the red. His cheeks reddened, and his eyes seemed to bulge as he forced it down, then he slapped his lips together and smiled as if he’d partaken of the sweetest nectar. ‘It is wonderful,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d be more than happy to see that served at my table.’

  ‘You should be on the stage, Mr Rayfield. I’m sorry, but this is a waste of my time. Good day.’

  ‘What’s happened, Pa?’ Violet asked as the landlord scurried away.

  ‘Nothing, my dear. This isn’t about the wines – it’s merely sour grapes because these people don’t want our business to succeed. I know what will happen next – they’ll fill in their order forms then demand a price cut. That’s what they’re up to.’

  Violet wasn’t sure that this was the case. If the gentlemen were enjoying the wines, they would be drinking them, not spitting them out. Within an hour, the spittoons were filled to overflowing and the order forms left blank on the tables. Pa looked dejected as the last of the guests left.

  ‘We’ve been had. The casks have been swapped somewhere along the line. Arvin won’t be happy about this – it’s done nothing for our reputation. Importers of fine wines indeed! We should turn our minds to selling vinegar, because that’s what it is. Vinegar!’ Pa took her arm. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Violet wanted to call on Mama and so they returned to Camden Crescent. Wilson let them into the house and took her shawl and bonnet. Pa retired to his study to lick his wounds while Violet went up to her mother’s room where Eleanor was scribbling in a notebook. Mama was lying on her bed with her eyes closed, propped up with bolsters and pillows with Dickens curled up on her feet, purring.

  ‘Hello, Violet,’ Eleanor said. ‘Didn’t Ottilie call on you earlier?’

  ‘She did, but I thought I’d come and see Mama. It’s quiet at home without Arvin and there’s only so much sewing one can do to fill in the time. Where is Ottilie?’

  ‘She’s helping out in the kitchen. May I be excused for a while as you’re here? Much as I find satisfaction in caring for our mother, it’s … well, it can be trying.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You go. I’ll sit with her for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When Eleanor had left the room, Violet opened the window and pulled a chair up beside the bed. She reached out and held Mama’s hand.

  ‘It’s been quite a day,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  Mama opened her eyes, then frowned.

  ‘Eleanor …’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh, you have been asleep. It’s me … Violet. Your daughter, the middle one,’ she went on when Mama stared at her without a flicker of recognition. ‘Don’t be silly. You know who I am, Mama.’

  ‘Eleanor,’ she said slowly.

  ‘No. Violet.’

  ‘Eleanor,’ she repeated, and a brief smile crossed her face.

  At the same time, Violet’s heart broke.

  Chapter Ten

  The Samphire and Fanny Buck

  When Arvin came back from France, he was delighted to see her, and very passionate, making her wonder afterwards if she could possibly be with child. She sincerely hoped so as it might give him reason to stay in Dover.

  When they dined at the Rayfields’, Pa spoke of the disappointing wine-tasting event, but Arvin wasn’t discouraged. He thought the casks could have been tampered with, and suggested that t
hey take on a man to guard the next consignment. They needn’t worry, he said, because during his stay, he’d managed to find the wine that would make their fortune. They would need to raise the money quickly to purchase it before anyone else did, though, as Arvin had persuaded the winemaker to give him first refusal.

  Her father had seen no difficulty in this. He would call on all his resources, arrange for a bill of exchange from the bank and sell his shares in the railway if need be.

  Violet ventured to suggest that they should be more circumspect, but neither of them would listen to her.

  ‘This is it,’ Pa said. ‘This is the big one. I can feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Then as soon as we have the funds, I’ll return to France to complete the deal.’

  ‘I shall accompany my husband this time,’ Violet said. ‘Mama no longer recognises me. There’s no reason for me to stay at home.’

  For once, Arvin didn’t try to persuade her out of it, and Violet threw herself into the flurry of arrangements that she had to make – notifying her friends that Mrs Brooke would not be at home, making sure the servants were organised, and packing everything she would need for a trip abroad. She couldn’t wait.

  At last! They were on their way to France to see Paris and meet Claudette at the chateau. It was just a shame that Arvin had chosen the middle of a damp and dreary December to make the trip, Violet thought. It shouldn’t be too bad a journey, though – Arvin had assured her that it took less than three hours to cross the twenty miles to France.

  The paired funnels of the steam packet rose above them into the night sky as they followed the porter who was struggling with a trolley laden with their luggage: various boxes and a trunk from home, along with a small chest bound with chains and padlocks. Arvin had collected it in person from the guard’s van of the mail train while Violet waited for him at the Warden Hotel. He had insisted on keeping it in sight, making her wonder what its contents were.