by Jess Foley
Over a cup of tea she looked at that day’s edition of the Morning Post. Then, rested and refreshed, she left the pub and set off for the tobacconist’s shop to buy Mr Spencer’s tobacco.
Arriving at the shop, she spoke to the young man behind the counter, asking for an ounce of tobacco for Mr Spencer at Asterleigh House. The young man turned and called into the rear of the shop, ‘Tobacco for Mr Spencer at Asterleigh House, Dad. What’ll it be?’
In response an elderly man came through from the back and on looking enquiringly at his son was told, ‘This young lady here.’
‘Ah, miss, yes. You want tobacco for Mr Spencer at Asterleigh?’
Grace said she did. ‘I’m to get an ounce, but I don’t know which brand. Mrs Spencer said you would know.’
‘Yes, indeed, miss. Mr Spencer uses Franklyn’s Fine Shagg. An ounce, you say, miss?’
When the tobacco had been weighed and wrapped, Grace paid the man and took the small package and put it in her bag next to her purse. Then, thanking the man, she turned away. The door opened as she stopped before it, opened by a tall man who held it for her to pass through. But in the same moment the shop proprietor called out, ‘Miss, you didn’t pick up your change.’ About to pass through the doorway, Grace abruptly turned away from it and, without an apology, left the tall man standing there, holding the door open. As she picked up her change from the counter she heard the man behind her give a little sigh of exasperation and say with a chuckle, ‘It’s perfectly all right, miss, I have nothing better to do in my life than stand here as lackey to the passing trade.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said, stung, turning back to him, ‘I didn’t mean to make you wait there.’ With her words she swept past him out into the street, and without looking back stalked away.
Looking up at the clock face on the town hall, she saw that it was 12.45. She had only the hair tonic to buy for Mr Spencer and then her shopping was finished. She knew from past visits to the market that there was a stall selling hair oils and tonics and such things, so she headed for it now.
People came from miles around to do their weekly shopping, and at times the aisles between the market stalls were congested. And not only with those out to buy, but sellers, too, men, women and children who moved through the aisles with trays on their breasts, selling ribbons and bootlaces, cotton thread and all kinds of knick-knacks and other items that were fairly portable and didn’t take up too much space. And not only were all the early risers still busy about the place, but all the latecomers had now arrived to swell their numbers.
Looking around for the stall offering the hair tonic, Grace was drawn to a stall where the holder was selling hand-made lace. She stopped at the stall and carefully picked up a short length of the lace, looking at the fine work. There was no denying that it was very beautiful. Machine-made lace was widely used now, making the handmade kind so much more expensive.
As she held the lace up to the light under the approving eye of the stallholder she heard a voice say, ‘Beautiful, ain’t it, miss,’ and saw that the words had come from one of two young lads of thirteen or fourteen who stood side by side grinning at her. She smiled back at them. ‘Yes, it’s very pretty.’
‘Like you, miss,’ the shorter of the two boys said, and Grace gave an ironic little bow and thanked him, and the two boys good-naturedly punched one another on the upper arms and laughed loudly at their own impertinence.
After several moments’ deliberation, Grace decided to buy half a yard of the lace. She would send it to Aunt Edie as a little present with her next letter. It would look so pretty dressing up a plain nightgown.
Grace paid for the lace, and as she put it safely in her bag with her other purchases the older of the two boys said with a wide grin and an arched eyebrow, ‘You gettin’ married, miss? That’ll look right grand on yer weddin’ gown.’
‘No, I’m not getting married,’ she said, laughing, to which the youth replied, ‘Oh, that’s good to ’ear! So d’yer reckon there’s a chance for me?’ And then hooting raucously into the air, he and his companion turned and were off through the crowd.
Grace also moved on, and after another minute was standing at a stall where she could see on display the hair tonic that she was to buy for Mr Spencer. When she had bought a bottle of it, she put it in her basket. On the slip of paper that was her shopping list she wrote with her pencil the cost of the hair tonic, adding it to the prices of the other items she had bought for Mrs Spencer. That done, she moved on, stopping at a nearby stall where she found herself attracted by a show of colourful prints of classical artworks, by artists including Raphael, Murillo and Constable, as well as more modern artists such as Millais and Burne-Jones. She found particularly attractive a print of a painting by the Spanish artist Murillo, showing peasant boys eating fruit. The print was simply but attractively framed, and she stood gazing at the picture wishing she could afford it.
And then suddenly her attention was taken by the sound of an altercation close behind her, and turning she saw a flurry of movement among the people and then realized that a tall man had taken hold of a boy by the arm and the scruff of the neck and was trying to drag him away. She recognized the boy as one of the pair who had spoken to her a few minutes before. Still holding the picture, Grace, along with many others stood and watched the little drama. And Grace realized that she knew the man’s face also; he was the one who had held open the tobacconist’s door for her. Now she watched as the boy lashed out with his boot, catching the man on the right shin. The man responded by giving a yell of pain, and releasing the boy just long enough to give him a clout on the side of the face.
This was enough for Grace. Putting down the picture, she picked up her basket that she had placed between her feet and stepped forward.
‘Sir,’ she cried, ‘how dare you strike that boy!’ As she finished speaking she became aware of the many pairs of eyes now taking her in as a part of the increasingly dramatic scene.
The man said nothing, but concentrated on holding the struggling boy.
‘What has he done to you,’ Grace said, ‘that you should treat him in this way!’
‘The answer to that, miss,’ the man said, ‘is nothing at all.’
‘Then I suggest you release him at once.’
The man ignored her. With the boy struggling and squirming in his grasp, he was trying to hold him at arm’s length and so avoid his swinging fists and feet.
‘Did you hear me?’ Grace said. ‘Let him go.’ While she spoke she could not escape the feeling that by interfering she had somehow committed herself to the situation and could not now turn and fade into the background – which might have been the best course if she was to keep her dignity intact. To add to her discomfiture, the man seemed to treat her with little less than contempt. Over the flailing limbs and the sound of the boy’s protests he looked at Grace and gave a kind of groan.
‘Dear God, save me from the morally righteous,’ he said, briefly casting his eyes up heavenward. Then looking directly at Grace again, he added with a sardonic smile, ‘Our second meeting in an hour, miss. We mustn’t make a habit of it or people will begin to talk.’
‘Release that boy at once,’ she said angrily. ‘At once, I tell you.’
As if taking his cue from Grace, the boy gave a violent squirm and twist in the man’s grasp, and opening his mouth, closed his teeth over the man’s wrist and bit down. The man yelled and let go at once, and in less than a second the boy was away, slipping through the crowd.
After seeing the boy vanish, Grace turned to the man who now had his wrist up to his mouth, soothing the bruised flesh. But unable to think of anything further to say – and thinking that perhaps she had already said more than enough – she merely gave him a contemptuous glare and turned away. As she stepped smartly between the stalls, head held unnaturally high, she was aware of the eyes of the crowd upon her, and could feel herself blushing under their scrutiny. Intent now only on making her retreat she walked briskly away. Behind h
er she heard the man’s voice as he called out, ‘Wait a minute, miss. Don’t be in such a hurry,’ but she ignored his words and hurried on.
‘Miss! I say, miss, will you wait a minute …?’
Half-turning, glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that the tall man was coming in pursuit of her. She quickened her pace, though knowing that with his stride she couldn’t possibly hope to outpace him for long. And then, moments later, he was striding along beside her.
‘Miss – will you hold up there a second?’
Pointedly ignoring him, she walked on. The attention she had provoked from the bystanders had made her feel uncomfortable and now she wanted to leave the scene as soon as she could – not to mention the one who had been the cause of it all.
‘I’ve got longer legs than you, miss,’ the man said now, matching her stride with his own. ‘And you’ll get tired before I do. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘Sir.’ Grace spoke through gritted teeth, keeping her eyes full ahead. ‘I have nothing to say to you, and I’d be obliged if you’d not bother me.’
‘Oh, I’m bothering you, am I?’
Hearing his challenging tone, she dared flick a glance at him and saw that he was smiling at her. The smile, however, was as sardonic as his tone. In her brief glance she also took in the fact that he was tall and youngish, and was wearing a brown Norfolk jacket with a muffler about his neck. He, catching her eye, put up his hand and briefly raised his hat. Grace looked ahead again.
‘Please, sir,’ she said, ‘I would be grateful if you would kindly leave me alone.’
‘Oh, I understand,’ he said, ‘you think I’m some masher who’s out to make a score, is that it?’
‘I don’t think of you as anything,’ she said. ‘I know nothing about you.’ Coming to an abrupt stop, she turned to him as he came to a halt beside her.
‘Look’ she said, ‘what I can tell you is that I’m in rather a hurry, and that I’d be grateful if you would please leave me alone and stop pestering me.’
‘Well, I’d like you to tell me one thing,’ he said.
‘Oh? And what’s that?’ She thought his eyes seemed to be mocking her. And why was she listening to him? She shouldn’t even be standing there long enough to give him as much as the time of day. ‘I must go,’ she said.
‘Just tell me one thing,’ he said. He reached out to her as he spoke, and it seemed for a moment that he would put his hand upon her arm. But he did not, and let his hand fall back to his side. ‘Just tell me – where did you put your purse?’
‘What?’ she said. ‘You embarrass me in front of everybody in the market and then –’
‘I embarrassed you?’ he cut in.
Rather than prolong the encounter she decided to let this pass and not split hairs. ‘Well, whatever,’ she said, and then: ‘Why on earth do you want to know about my purse?’
He sighed. ‘Please – I promise I’m neither madman nor masher. Just tell me, please. Make sure it’s safe.’
And there was something in his face, some expression. Something that captured her attention and said that he was not, indeed, an escapee from the local asylum. Echoing his own sigh, she shook her head, as it were to a recalcitrant child who must be favoured, and said, ‘Well, just to indulge you for a second …’ and turned away, as if hiding from his view the contents of her bag while she delved into it. A moment or two later she turned back to him.
‘My purse is gone.’
He nodded, lips compressed. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’
‘You – you knew? But then –’
With a flourish which, in the circumstances she forgave him, he put his right hand inside his jacket and the next moment whipped out her purse. ‘Yours, I think, miss, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said.
Her mouth open, Grace took the purse from his outstretched hand. ‘My purse,’ she said vacantly. ‘But how did you –’ And then realization dawned. ‘The boy. Those two boys who were fooling about and being so friendly …’
‘Exactly. And now you know why I collared one of them.’
Grace had put her hand to her mouth, and now slowly lowered it. ‘Oh,’ she said lamely, ‘sir, I don’t know what to say.’
He smiled. ‘You don’t need to say anything, miss. All’s well that ends well.’ And with a slightly mocking inclination of his head he turned and walked away.
Chapter Nine
Grace was sewing, mending one of Billy’s shirts, and sitting close to the window in order to catch the last of the fading light. Although the rain had stopped falling, it still dripped from the leaves of the elm tree beside the stable. And undeterred by the damp a blackbird sang among the wet branches. In the late April evening his song was the most beautiful sound, incredibly varied and almost unbearably sweet, sometimes delicately fragile and at others rich and full-throated. At times his singing was so arresting that Grace found herself pausing in her stitching just to concentrate on his song, briefly holding her breath lest some exquisite phrase be missed.
The small clock on the mantel showed the time at almost 9.30. Billy would be asleep by now, she thought. Earlier, around seven, she had been sitting with him in his room, listening to him read, when in through the open window had drifted the sound of a horse and carriage moving into the stable yard below. It was, Grace had known, the carriage that had brought the Spencers’ dinner guest.
Billy had gone to the window and looked down into the yard.
‘You can’t see anything,’ Grace had said from her armchair. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’
‘Yes, I can,’ he had said. ‘It’s a pony and trap. Though nothing grand. Mr Spencer’s groom’s just getting down. I suppose the visitor will have got out already at the front door. I can’t see any sign of him.’
‘Of course he will. You don’t expect him to come round to the back, do you?’
Billy then had come from the window and sat on the bed. He had been out in the garden for much of the day, helping Mr Clutter on the herbaceous borders. And later he had spent time in his room trying to model a steam engine from cardboard, a design that he had drawn, painted and cut out. The half-finished model now sat on the top of the old bureau, scissors and pieces of cardboard around it. He was making the model for Mrs Spencer, who had the previous day given him the sketchbook that Grace had brought from Corster.
‘I’ll leave you to get on with your model,’ Grace had said at last and, closing the book, had put it on the side and got up from the chair. At the same time Billy had taken up the train model, judiciously held it up to the light and then picked up the scissors.
‘But don’t work too late,’ Grace had said.
‘I won’t.’
Now, back in her own room, Grace squinted at the sewing in her fingers and then put it aside. The daylight was growing too dim for her to continue, and she did not want to light the lamp just yet as it attracted the moths.
Her sewing forgotten for the moment, she leaned back in her chair, rested her head against the faded velvet and looked out at the rain that dripped from the ivy just outside the window. Yesterday, Friday, had begun with the weather unusually warm for the time of year and Mrs Spencer had considered having Johnson drive them out so that they could do some painting outdoors. It was the first time she had proposed such a thing. But then rain clouds had begun to gather on the horizon, and while the two women waited, hoping that the clouds would pass, the skies had got darker still, and the rain had begun to fall. So the two had contented themselves with setting up a still life in Mrs Spencer’s studio and sitting over their watercolours while outside the rain lashed down. Grace’s painting, the result of her efforts, now stood on her bureau, propped up against the wall. She was relatively happy with the picture, though she knew she would never be as good as Mrs Spencer or Billy.
Her thoughts were distracted by the sound of light footsteps on the landing, and moments later there came a tap on her door. She got up at once and opened it. The maid, Jane, stood there.<
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‘Please, miss,’ Jane said, unsmiling, ‘but the missis has asked if you could go downstairs in a little while.’
‘Go downstairs? They have a guest there for dinner, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, miss. They’re just about to have the pudding. Mrs Spencer asks if you could go down to the drawing room in about twenty minutes or so to join them for coffee.’ A pause. ‘Shall I tell her yes?’
‘Oh, but, Jane – I’m not properly dressed. And my hair …’
‘It’s not for twenty minutes, miss. You got a little while.’
‘Well –’ Grace gave a sigh, ‘it’ll take me all of that.’ She turned and glanced at the clock, registering the time. ‘All right, Jane, will you tell Mrs Spencer that I’ll be there.’
‘I will, miss.’ The maid turned and stepped away.
After closing the door behind the departing footsteps of the maid Grace stood still for a moment. She couldn’t imagine why her presence was required with the visitor there. She looked at herself in the oval mirror and frowned: her hair was coming loose and there was no way she could go downstairs wearing the old worn dress that she had on. Still, it was no time to stand around.
Twenty-two minutes later, with her hair brushed and put in place again, and having changed into a dress that looked a little less casual and altogether more suitable, she left her room and went along the landing to the main stairs and started down.
At the foot of the stairs she crossed the wide hall towards the drawing room. As she did so she heard from beyond the door leading to the dining room a faint murmur of a male voice. She continued on, tapped on the drawing room door, opened it and stepped inside.
The evening had turned much cooler and a welcoming fire burned in the wide grate. Mrs Spencer was sitting on the sofa before a low table with a laden silver coffee tray on it, in her hands a cup and saucer. She was wearing a dress that Grace had not seen before. In pale lavender brocaded silk, trimmed with fine lace, its simple lines complemented the general air of elegance that always seemed be a part of her appearance.
