A Thimbleful of Hope

by Evie Grace

  Violet let her father lead her out of the courtroom and was forced to listen to the jeers and catcalls from the jostling crowd outside as he helped her into a cab for the journey home. The driver sent the horse forward and the yells of ‘Whore!’ and ‘Slut!’ followed them down Priory Road towards York Street.

  ‘How did I not see through that man’s trickery? He was a rat. No, a weasel.’

  Violet put her hands over her ears, trying to ignore her father’s ranting as the cab rattled and bounced along Dover’s cobbled streets.

  ‘Violet.’ She felt her father’s hand on her wrist. ‘Violet, listen to me.’

  ‘No, I will never take notice of you again. You said all would be well, that you’d protect me.’

  ‘I did my best,’ he said dully, ‘but it is done and now we must plan for the future.’

  ‘What future?’ She dropped her hands and glared at him. ‘I have no future. I’m ruined. You heard them!’

  They headed along the seafront.

  ‘I have another appointment with Mr Wiggins – I’m reviewing the contents of my will to make sure that you, your mother and sisters are properly provided for should anything happen to me.’

  ‘I’d assumed that you’d made sure of that before,’ Violet said as they passed Camden Crescent.

  ‘I had,’ her father said, sounding hurt, ‘but after recent events, I’ve realised that one can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To your house …’ Mr Rayfield corrected himself. ‘To the house Arvin rented for you … I think we should collect your valuables and any other small items that we can manage. Tomorrow, I’ll send removal men to collect your clothes and the furniture. We will take what we’re owed.’

  ‘I don’t want anything except my sewing box and personal effects.’ She didn’t want anything which would remind her of the duplicitous Mr Brooke.

  ‘This is our only chance to obtain any recompense and we’re going to make the most of it.’ Mr Rayfield called up to the driver through the trap-door in the roof. ‘Stop here, sir.’

  The cab pulled up outside the house at East Cliff, and the driver leaned down from his raised seat behind the passenger compartment to ask for his fare.

  ‘Release the doors, so my daughter can get out – she needs air,’ her father said.

  ‘I will have my fare first, thank you,’ the driver said.

  ‘Please, have some consideration for the young lady.’

  Violet wasn’t sure if it was the driver or the horse who snorted with derision.

  ‘My fare?’

  Her father paid through the trap-door and the driver released the doors. Violet struggled out with her heavy skirts, and looked across to find that her father was already on the pavement. He was waving his fist at the Frenchwoman who was on the doorstep of Violet’s former marital home, talking animatedly to a man with an oil can in his hand. May was standing beside the railings outside the house, surrounded by several bags and a suitcase.

  Her father had been thwarted – they were too late.

  As the cab turned on a sixpence and set off back along the seafront, she went to try to drag her father away, but he pushed her aside, almost knocking her off balance.

  ‘My daughter wishes to collect her possessions.’

  ‘I can speak for myself, thank you,’ Violet said crossly.

  ‘Your maid has packed your valuables,’ Claudette said.

  ‘I have the sewing box and your embroidery,’ May interrupted.

  ‘I’ve had the owner of the house change the locks, so don’t even think about coming back. Everything inside was my husband’s property and therefore belongs to me.’

  Somehow it didn’t matter – Claudette had not only appropriated the items she and Arvin had chosen for their home, she had stolen Violet’s life, her honour and self-respect. Unknowingly too, the true Mrs Brooke had condemned an innocent child to a lifetime of shame. Violet’s blood started to boil. The situation had been Arvin’s fault, but this woman was revelling in it.

  ‘You are an evil witch!’ she shouted. ‘You have no heart!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bags o’Surprises

  Of course, there was no way that anyone could keep the court’s verdict from her sisters. When Violet returned to Camden Crescent with her father, he went straight out again while she hid herself in the kitchen, reluctant to face them, but it had to come.

  ‘There you are,’ Eleanor said, pushing the door open.

  ‘We’re very sorry.’ Ottilie walked past her and pulled one of the wheelback chairs up to the table so that she could sit down. ‘I can tell from the look on your face that it didn’t go well.’

  Violet didn’t know what to say to them as they gazed at her, their eyes dark with concern. She picked up the rolling pin and began shaping a pat of pastry into rounds for a pie.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Eleanor said, and she started making tea. She put out the Chinese cups and saucers which reminded Violet of Arvin and how the cups used to rattle when he sneezed. ‘Is Pa at home?’

  ‘He has an appointment with Mr Wiggins. He’s very downhearted.’

  ‘Arvin deceived us all,’ Ottilie said.

  ‘I don’t know why I didn’t see it.’ Violet took a handful of flour out of the bag and scattered it across the tabletop, so the rounds wouldn’t stick.

  ‘You’re making a mess,’ Eleanor observed.

  ‘I don’t care. My marriage is null and void.’ She pressed too hard on the rolling pin, tearing holes in the pastry. She screwed it up into a ball and started again. ‘Arvin seemed genuine, but there were clues, little things that he said and did that didn’t ring true.’ A tear dripped into the flour. ‘When I asked if I could travel with him, he said he couldn’t drag me away from Mama when she was so ill. I’ve been a fool.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have been horrified if he’d insisted on you travelling abroad in those circumstances?’ Ottilie asked.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Then you mustn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘What I can’t reconcile is …’ She glanced towards Eleanor who was measuring loose tea from the caddy into the pot. There was no point in holding back – the reports of the hearing would be in all the newspapers tomorrow. ‘I can’t get past the fact that Arvin was having relations with me and Claudette.’ The thought of his infidelity, of him lying with another woman, made her feel nauseous.

  ‘My John wouldn’t do such a thing, but he did tell me once that there are some men who like to eat their cake and have it too.’

  ‘We are all ruined,’ Eleanor said dramatically over the kettle’s shrill whistle. ‘What decent man will have us now, any of us?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Violet said bitterly. She hadn’t just lost Arvin, she had lost her good name, status and her establishment, and let her sisters down. Her ruination was their ruination too. ‘My marrying Arvin was supposed to have freed you, Ottilie, but it’s only made things worse. I wish I’d drowned in the sea that night, then our troubles would have been over.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ Ottilie said quickly. ‘The Frenchwoman would still have turned up to put in her claim against you, and Pa would still be out of pocket.’

  ‘I’m spoiled goods.’ Violet recalled the failed wine-tasting and consignment of vinegar. ‘I’ll never marry again, even if I want to, which I don’t. And I’ll never be forgiven for ruining the Rayfields’ good name. My poor sisters …’ Gazing through a veil of tears from one to the other, she couldn’t bring herself to tell them about the infant which had quickened inside her. There would be no more balls and dances, no more privilege born of their association with their father. Their lives as they knew them were over.

  ‘We will be three spinsters growing old together,’ Eleanor sighed.

  ‘Only two,’ Ottilie said as Violet picked up the bag of flour to put it away in the pantry. ‘I’m still determined that John and I will get married, even if it has to be o
ver the broomstick. What’s that? May?’

  May looked into the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a gentleman at the door who says ’e’s a reporter from the Dover Chronicle. ’e wishes to speak to Violet to ’ear ’er side of the story. I wanted to send ’im away with a flea in ’is ear, but ’e’s most insistent.’

  ‘Let me deal with him,’ Violet said, fresh ire rising in her breast.

  ‘Are you sure?’ May asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She made her way to the hall where a middle-aged man with brown teeth and yellow fingers, dressed in a long coat, stood with one foot in the doorway. He beamed when he saw her, walking with her head held high and her hands behind her back.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to give me this interview, Miss Rayfield,’ he said. ‘You have proved elusive.’

  ‘How can you pretend to be surprised, considering the terrible lies you have printed about me?’ she said coldly.

  ‘Then this is your chance to have your say. May I come in?’

  ‘No, sir. I came out here, so I could have the satisfaction of sending you on your way. Go!’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Give me just five minutes of your time. Please.’

  ‘Go away.’ She gave the door a shove, but it wouldn’t shut because his foot was in the way. ‘Oh, all right then. If that’s how you want it.’ She opened the mouth of the bag of flour behind her back and threw the contents at him, right over his head.

  ‘Miss Rayfield. My coat! What have you done?’ He tried to dust himself down as the cloud of flour settled in his hair, his hat and his clothes.

  ‘Don’t darken our doorstep again,’ she snapped.

  ‘All right. I’m leaving.’ He hurried down the steps, turning at the bottom. ‘You should be locked up.’

  She stared at him. He looked pathetic, comical. She began to laugh, and he hurried away.

  In spite of having turned the journalist away, Violet’s name was back in the papers, thanks to the court hearing. There were stories of how Madame Brooke had returned to France, confirmation that the coroner would not reopen the inquest into Mr Brooke’s disappearance, and that Miss Rayfield had wanted him anyway, that she’d taken him as a lover and made the sham marriage for the sake of her reputation.

  Violet stayed on at the house in Camden Crescent, with her sisters and her father, who was happy to dispense with Mama’s nurses and employ May instead. He had already given notice to Mrs Garling – the housekeeper – some time ago and Cook who’d left in tears. With her experience of running a household, Violet stepped into her mother’s shoes, but she resented being dependent on her father, the man she blamed for most of the Rayfields’ difficulties. She felt guilty for thinking it, but she was thankful that her mother was oblivious to her fall from grace.

  Two weeks went by and the March winds were replaced by April showers.

  Violet was with her sisters in the parlour while Mr Rayfield was out.

  ‘You have spoiled me for making up stories.’ Eleanor looked up from a blank page. ‘I can’t think of a plot to better what’s gone on in real life.’

  ‘Don’t say that – it’s mean,’ Ottilie scolded her.

  ‘All right. I take it back, but it’s true. You can’t make it up.’

  ‘We were all caught up in Arvin’s web of lies. I remember the efforts he made to impress us, the assurances he gave about his prospects,’ Ottilie went on. ‘He was very convincing.’

  Violet felt a fresh pang of confusion and grief – and anger too – as she recalled how they had stood on the cliffs in front of the lighthouse and he had declared his affection for her. ‘Je t’adore,’ he had once told her.

  She heard footsteps and May entered the room, breathless and wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, but the butcher is ’ere, demanding ’is money. I asked ’im to come back another day, but ’e won’t ’ave it.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll come down,’ Violet sighed. ‘I thought Father had paid all the tradesmen.’

  Mr Young, the butcher, stood blocking the light from the door.

  ‘This won’t do, miss. This really won’t do,’ he said, his side whiskers bristling. ‘I gave you my invoice two weeks ago – I put it into your hand and you promised me you’d give it to Mr Rayfield.’

  ‘And I kept my word – you have my assurance that I gave it to him.’

  ‘He hasn’t paid it, and he hasn’t paid the one before that either.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘That old chestnut – I’ve heard them all before, every excuse under the sun. Well, I tell you, miss, the finest cuts of beef, the fattest legs of lamb and the most exceptional sausages in Kent come at a price. Tell Mr Rayfield that I’ll be back tomorrow morning for my payment in full. If it isn’t here, I’ll be taking steps. You tell him, I’ll be taking steps,’ he repeated with menace, his words sending a shiver of fear down her spine as she pictured him standing over her father with his butcher’s knife.

  ‘I’ll make sure you receive your money, even though your sausages are very ordinary bags o’surprises,’ Violet said. ‘Good day, Mr Young.’

  She closed the basement door, shutting him out.

  ‘I’m sorry for putting you through that, miss,’ May said from behind her. ‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘It won’t happen again – I’ll speak to Father.’ It wasn’t the only invoice he had left unpaid – she’d spotted the final bill for the nurses on the desk in his study and a letter from Mr Johnson requesting immediate payment for the diving trip.

  ‘Forgive me for saying, but I was under the impression that Mr Rayfield weren’t doin’ so well. I ’eard talk of it when I went to the bakers – I didn’t say nothin’, but I couldn’t ’elp listening in. They say he lost all your mother’s gold, and before that there was the trouble with the Dover Belle—’

  ‘My father has many business interests – he was never one to keep all his eggs in one basket.’ Violet chose not to mention that she knew he’d taken out a loan with the bank to pay Mr Wiggins and the other expenses he’d accrued in fighting her case. He’d done it on the basis that they would win, and he would pay it back plus interest with the inheritance she would have received from Arvin. She couldn’t see how he’d ever pay it back, especially now that Claudette held the greater share in Brooke and Rayfield. ‘I’ll speak to him later.’ She placed her hands on the slight curve of her stomach.

  ‘You’re putting on weight,’ May observed. ‘Do you think …?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m sure I’m not.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the end of the world, miss.’

  ‘Oh, it would.’ She hated lying to May, but she knew full well that she had to keep it to herself until she absolutely had to admit it to anyone else – if her father thought she was carrying Arvin’s bastard, she would be out on her ear. As it was, the few ladies who used to call on Mama, bringing calf’s foot jelly, herbs and special remedies as gifts for the invalid, had made excuses to stop their regular visits. They sent their regrets instead.

  The gentlemen didn’t associate with her father either – there was no more dining at Camden Crescent.

  That afternoon, he requested her company for a walk down to the quay, saying that he wished to check on the casks which had remained unsold after the disastrous wine-tasting.

  ‘I would have preferred not to go out,’ she said, looking at the weather. The road was gleaming after a short, sharp shower, and the sea spangling in the sun.

  ‘I have an umbrella,’ he said, putting it up as the rain began to fall again. ‘And it won’t take long. Come on, there aren’t many fathers who would welcome their daughter back into the fold after what has happened.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’ She glared at him, hating being beholden to him and expected to work as housekeeper, cook and nurse with her sisters.

  He didn’t answer as they set out along the promenade.

  When they reached the quay, they mad
e their way through the chaos of sailors, fishermen and porters to the warehouse, tripping over ropes and crates of all kinds. Her father stopped abruptly and stared at the doors. Somebody had bolted and padlocked an iron bar right across the front and affixed a sign with ‘Warehouse to Let. Apply to Mr Turner, Dover Harbour Board.’

  Violet watched her father’s face turn puce and his hands clench with anger.

  ‘How can they do this? They have stolen my wine – it belongs to me now that Arvin is gone.’

  ‘There’s been a mistake. Let’s find this man and explain. I’m sure it can all be sorted out very quickly.’ She paused. ‘You aren’t behind on the rent?’

  ‘I may have missed a payment,’ her father said.

  ‘And the wine – well, everyone said it was vinegar.’

  ‘It has some value for pickling eggs and walnuts. I don’t want to give it up when I need every penny I can get.’ Violet watched on helplessly, wishing he wouldn’t cause a scene as he ran around frantically asking for Mr Turner, who turned out to be away on other business.

  ‘Father,’ she said eventually, when he was standing in the middle of the quayside, with his head in his hands. ‘We should come back another day. Please, come home.’

  He turned to look at her, and quietly acquiesced.

  As they walked along, she was aware that people were looking at them. She could hear a group of low-born women chattering without caring who heard them.

  ‘There’s Mr Rayfield and ’is daughter, the infamous Mrs Brooke.’

  ‘I’m surprised she dares show ’er face.’ One spat, her spittle landing just in front of Violet’s feet. ‘’Usband thief!’

  ‘You can see why ’e did it – look at ‘er.’

  ‘’E was bewitched.’

  Mortified, Violet hurried her father along.

  ‘Why didn’t you speak up for me?’ she asked him when they reached the seafront and there were fewer people around. It crossed her mind that William would have done, had he been there.