by Dilly Court
‘Anne, this is Miss Eliza Bragg, the young woman who owns the chandlery.’ Aaron turned to Eliza. ‘Miss Eliza, my wife Anne.’
Anne looked Eliza up and down and her lips smiled but her eyes were cold. ‘How do you do, Miss Bragg. Welcome to our home.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Brandon, do your duty,’ Anne said, tapping him on the arm with her furled fan. ‘Introduce Miss Bragg to the rest of our guests.’
As Brandon offered her his arm, Eliza knew that she had not made a good impression on his tight-lipped mother. But the appreciative sparkle in Brandon’s eyes told her that the combined efforts of Millie and Mary had not been in vain. They had tugged at the laces on her stays until she could barely draw a breath, but she could probably boast the smallest waist in the room. Her neck felt as though it would snap beneath the weight of her hair elaborately coiffed into a pale golden coronet on the top of her head, skilfully threaded with beads and silk flowers by Mary. She could not look down without blushing at the expanse of bare bosom revealed by the low-cut gown, but Brandon and the other gentlemen were obviously relishing the sight.
‘You look good enough to eat, Eliza,’ Brandon whispered in her ear as he guided her across the red carpet towards a prosperous-looking man seated with his overdressed, bejewelled wife. ‘Smile at the old buffers and they’ll be falling over themselves to give you trade discounts and put business your way.’
By the time they had done the full circle of the room, Eliza felt that her smile had set in concrete on her face. Brandon had done nearly all the talking, speaking for her and squeezing her arm when he wanted her to make the appropriate response; she was beginning to feel like a ventriloquist’s doll.
‘You did well, Eliza,’ he said, taking a glass of sherry from a tray proffered by a servant and handing it to her. ‘The men will be eating out of your pretty little hand.’
‘Maybe, but the women all hate me.’ Eliza gulped a mouthful of the wine and felt the unaccustomed alcohol shoot straight to her head. She had not eaten all day and she had never drunk anything stronger than port and lemon or small beer.
‘Steady on,’ Brandon said, raising an eyebrow and grinning. ‘You’ll get squiffy if you carry on like that.’
‘I shouldn’t have come. They all think I’m a tart.’
‘They’re not used to women in business, especially young and beautiful women like you, Eliza. Don’t judge them too harshly, and use your looks and charm to your advantage.’
Sipping her drink a little more slowly, Eliza stared up at him over the rim of the glass. ‘How come you know so much all of a sudden?’
‘All right, I may not be an expert in building and shipping, but I did learn something at university and that was how to mix with the upper classes as well as the people in trade, like us. Be confident, Eliza. Think of yourself as just as good, if not better than these people and they’ll love you for it. Let them see that you’re unsure of yourself and they’ll walk all over you.’
‘How am I supposed to be nice to them when they stare at me boobies?’ Eliza said, fanning herself vigorously as she caught the lecherous glance of a middle-aged tobacco merchant seated on the opposite side of the room next to his snooty-looking wife.
‘Come now, you can’t blame him. Just remember he charters a fleet of ships to import tobacco. You need men like Brigham Stone to put business your way and get you back on your feet.’
Casting a covert glance at the toad-like Stone, Eliza shuddered. ‘I think he wants to get me off me feet, Brandon, and flat on me back.’
Brandon’s laugh echoed round the ornate high ceiling and there was a momentary lull in the conversation as all heads turned towards them.
‘Won’t you share the joke, Brandon?’ Aaron’s voice broke the silence.
Brandon opened his mouth to reply and Eliza stamped on his foot. Her soft satin slipper, also borrowed from Miss Cynthia, could not have made much impact on his leather shoe, but it surprised him enough to hold his tongue. Luckily for Eliza, the butler announced that dinner was served and the assembled company rose to their feet. She would not have been surprised if they had stampeded into the dining room bellowing like a herd of hungry bullocks, but they lined up in pairs and, to her dismay, Brigham Stone offered her his arm. She looked to Brandon to save her, but he nodded as if telling her that she must accept, and he escorted Mrs Stone into the dining room.
If Eliza had thought things were difficult earlier, she was horrified to see the mahogany dining table, stretching, it seemed, for miles, glittering with silver and crystal and an alarming array of cutlery at each place setting. She was seated between Brigham Stone, who kept leaning over and speaking to her with his eyes wandering to the swell of her breasts, and on the other side a short, fat man with a fuzz of white hair sprouting in tufts from a shining bald pate. He had been introduced as Silas Granger, a manufacturer of brass instruments, and he was trying to talk to her, quite sensibly, about stocking her store with his chronometers, sextants and compasses. When the first course was served, Eliza was relieved to find that it was soup, but which spoon should she use? Watching out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Granger lift the rounded spoon on the outside right of his cutlery. Swallowing a mouthful of red wine, Eliza picked up her spoon, but the maid was offering her a bread roll and she almost knocked her wine over as she reached out to take the bread. It was a nightmare, and as course replaced course, Eliza ate very little, sipping her wine and trying to copy the table manners of the other guests.
By the time dessert arrived, she was feeling quite tipsy and her head was swimming. She was fed up with Brigham’s suggestive remarks, and he kept touching her thigh beneath the tablecloth. Finally, when his fingers moved insistently towards the top of her leg, Eliza could stand it no longer and she stuck her fork in his offending hand. Brigham let out a yelp of pain, jerking his arm away and spilling Eliza’s glass of red wine down the front of her frock. Stunned with shock, Eliza watched the blood-red liquid trickle down between her breasts, staining the pink silk as if he had stabbed her in the heart.
Chapter Fourteen
There was a moment of horrified silence as Eliza rose slowly to her feet, staring at the fingers of crimson wine creeping down the bodice of her borrowed gown. Then everyone started talking at once, offering sympathy and advice on how best to remove wine stains from silk. Brigham’s face glowed ruby-red and he made an ineffectual attempt to dab at her bodice with his table napkin, but Eliza seized him by the wrist, gripping it tightly in her clawed fingers. ‘This was your fault, mister,’ she hissed, through clenched teeth.
Brigham shot a nervous glance at his wife who was sitting opposite him, visibly bristling. His mouth wobbled into a parody of a smile but his eyes were codfish-cold as he turned on Eliza. ‘You stabbed me in the hand, you little bitch.’
‘My dear Miss Bragg,’ Brandon said, getting hastily to his feet. ‘What an unfortunate mishap.’ He signalled to the butler who was hovering near the serving table. ‘Mason, send for my mother’s maid. I’m sure she will know how best to limit the damage to Miss Bragg’s gown.’
Eliza nodded her thanks, forcing a smile. She dug her fingernails into Brigham’s fat wrist. ‘You’ll pay for a new gown, or I’ll tell your missis just what your wandering hand was doing beneath the tablecloth.’
His pale grey eyes bulged from their sockets. ‘All right, all right. Keep your voice down.’
‘You’re a real gent.’ Eliza released his arm. She glanced round at the concerned diners, raising her voice. ‘It weren’t your fault that I spilt me wine, Mr Stone. But I call it more than generous to offer to replace me frock.’ Despite the fact that she was trembling from head to foot, she bobbed a curtsey to her host and hostess. ‘It’s been lovely, but as you can see I really need to go home and get out of these wet duds. So if you’ll all kindly excuse me.’
‘Must you leave so soon?’ Brandon had made his way round the table and was standing at her side. ‘I’m certain that my mothe
r would be only too happy to loan you something dry to wear.’
Anne Miller sucked in her cheeks. ‘Of course,’ she said, in a strangled voice.
‘Ta, but I wouldn’t want to put you to so much trouble.’ As she left the table, Eliza leaned towards Brigham whose colour had drained from his face leaving him with a sickly pallor. ‘I’m holding you to it. I’ll be round at your place in the morning to collect.’
He stared at her with narrowed eyes, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll send my man round to the chandlery first thing in the morning. Be there.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Tucking her hand through Brandon’s proffered arm, Eliza allowed him to lead her from the dining room. She could hear the babble of voices rising above the sound of shuffling movements as the gentlemen, having risen from their seats as she left the table, sat down again. Knowing that she was the main topic of conversation, Eliza felt her cheeks burning but she held her head high, biting her lip to keep back tears of humiliation.
As they walked through the anteroom and out into the spacious entrance hall, Brandon shot Eliza a worried glance. ‘Won’t you change your mind, Eliza? It seems a pity to spoil the evening just because of a trifling accident.’
Trifling! Eliza bit back the sharp retort that rose to her lips. Did this spoilt young man not realise how desperate a situation had been caused by this trifling accident? No, she thought bitterly, of course he did not. He had been brought up in a world so dissimilar from her own that, although they were separated only by a few mean streets, they might as well have been raised on different planets. Mary had risked her job to borrow this gown, and if her employers discovered what she had done, then she would be cast off without a reference or, even worse, might find herself up in front of the beak for stealing. And all this was the fault of one lecherous old man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Eliza had enough experience of the world to know that men like Brigham Stone treated women as playthings, objects of lust but entirely disposable. They didn’t believe that women had brains and if they did encounter a female who admitted to thinking about anything other than frills and furbelows, they labelled them as bluestockings, a disgrace to their sex and unnatural. It had been a terrible mistake, she thought miserably; she should have refused the invitation in the first place. Casting a sideways glance at Brandon, she saw to her disgust that he was staring at the sticky snail-trail of wine on her breasts as if he would like to lick it off with his tongue. There was a hot, unfocused look in his eyes that she had seen on many occasions when men had propositioned her. If only she were a man, she would punch Brandon on his aquiline nose. But she was not a man and she could not afford to insult the Millers and so she smiled. ‘No, ta. I must go home.’
‘Then I’ll send for the carriage.’
‘I can walk. It ain’t far.’ If she stayed a minute longer, Eliza was afraid that she would lose her tenuous grip on self-control and she would disgrace herself by crying.
Brandon’s dark eyebrows knotted together over the top of his nose and he shook his head vehemently. ‘No. It’s not safe for a young woman to walk these streets at night. I won’t hear of it. You’ll go in our carriage and I won’t take no for an answer.’
Before she could reply, he had barked an order at the footman who was standing to attention in the vestibule. The servant hurried outside to summon the carriage and Eliza shivered as a cool breeze wafted in through the open door. She had come as she was, not having a suitable wrap or a half-decent shawl, and now she was feeling distinctly chilly with goose pimples popping out all over her bare arms.
‘You’re cold,’ Brandon said, placing an arm around her shoulders.
‘Only a bit.’
With a swift movement, Brandon twisted her round and kissed her on the lips. It was a brief salute, and he drew back almost instantly with an apologetic smile dancing in his eyes, but his arms still held her. ‘Forgive me, Miss Bragg. I’m afraid I gave in to temptation.’
A polite cough from the footman made Brandon release her.
‘The carriage is outside, sir.’
Eliza stepped away from him. She was trembling with affront and anger. How dare he kiss her on the mouth like a common tart! If only Bart were here, he wouldn’t stand for a man’s taking advantage of his sister. But then if Bart were here, she wouldn’t have to go begging for money from wealthy merchants. Brandon’s swift embrace had only added to the disastrous events of the evening. She had made a scene at dinner, and the borrowed gown was ruined. Things could hardly get much worse.
‘Let’s get you into the carriage, my dear,’ Brandon said smoothly and without any apparent embarrassment. ‘I’d see you home myself, but Father and I have some important business to discuss with the gentlemen after the ladies have retired to the withdrawing room.’
He offered her his arm, moving so close to her that she could smell the bay rum pomade that slicked his hair to his well-shaped head, and the faint scent of cigar smoke that clung to his evening suit. It brought back the dreadful memories of the night of the fire when he had dragged her clear of the collapsing wall: that fatal night that had changed her life. She held her head high and suffered Brandon to lead her to the waiting carriage.
He helped her into the vehicle, momentarily holding on to her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘We must do this again and soon, my dear. I think you and I could do extremely well together.’ With a disarming smile, he stepped back to allow the footman to close the carriage door.
She could have cried, although this time it was with pure relief. The evening had been a complete disaster, but at least she was now on her way home. She might not have the physical power to fight off the unwanted attentions of men, but there were other weapons at her disposal and a sharp tongue was one of them. As the coachman urged the horses forward, Eliza leaned out of the window staring pointedly at Brandon’s shirtfront, which was stained with a blush of pink where he had held her close to his chest. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, curving her lips in a smile and fluttering her eyelashes. ‘I’m afraid the wine has ruined your nice white shirt, Mr Miller. What will your mother make of that, I wonder?’ She had the satisfaction of seeing the smile wiped from his face as he glanced down at his stained shirtfront. As she sank back against the leather squabs, Eliza felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat.
The carriage sped through the dark streets and she was dimly aware of the coachman shouting at revellers, who either were too drunk to be aware of the danger of flying hooves and carriage wheels, or were deliberately baiting the driver of an expensive equipage. The crack of a whip and the exchange of abuse were just background noise as Eliza struggled to imagine how she would break the news to Mary that the gown was ruined. Although she was well aware of the dangers of driving down Ratcliff Highway at night, even in a closed carriage, she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. It was not uncommon for coachmen to be dragged from their vehicles and clubbed to the ground, the occupants robbed and sometimes murdered and the horses stolen. But it seemed that Aaron Miller’s coachman was well equipped and, at one point, when the horses were forced to a halt whinnying and neighing with fright, Eliza heard the sharp report of a pistol shot and then the coach lurched forward, moving at a spanking pace. As they reached the narrow entrance to Hemp Yard, the coachman drew the horses to a halt. He barked instructions to a couple of street urchins to hold the horses while he saw the young lady to her door.
‘You can’t be too careful, miss,’ the coachman said as he helped her down onto the cobblestones. ‘This here place is beyond the law and young ladies like yourself shouldn’t be out alone at night. I wouldn’t let me own daughters do it and you shouldn’t neither.’
Too tired and emotional to argue, Eliza allowed him to escort her to the front door. He waited while she turned the key in the lock. ‘Thank you,’ Eliza said, smiling. ‘You was kind, mister.’
‘Hawkins, miss. And it weren’t nothing.’ He tipped his hat and went
off into the darkness.
Eliza went inside and closed the door. She had hoped that Millie would be in bed, but she was seated at the kitchen table reading a book in the guttering light of a single candle. She looked up with a surprised expression. ‘You’re home early, Liza. Did you have a good time?’
‘It was business. I didn’t expect to enjoy myself.’ Reluctantly, Eliza moved into the circle of candlelight. ‘I had a bit of a mishap, Millie.’
Millie’s eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘No, I’m not. It’s a wine stain. Red wine got spilt down me front.’ Eliza pulled out a chair and sank down onto the hard wooden seat. ‘I dunno what I’m going to do about it. I made the old bugger promise to pay for it, but that’s not going to help Mary.’ Now that she was safe at home, the whole horror of the evening crowded in on her and tears flowed down her cheeks. With a cry of distress, Millie flung her arms round her and they clung to each other sobbing.
Eliza found that having let go, she couldn’t stop: she was crying for the ruined gown, for letting Mary down so badly, for Bart’s death in a foreign land, for Freddie’s transportation to Australia, for Ted who had been like a father to her; for her lost youth and unfulfilled dreams. At last, exhausted by the tempest of tears, she gulped and sniffed, patting Millie’s back as if she were a baby. ‘There, there, don’t take on so. I – I’m sure we can find a way out of this. Things will look better in the morning.’
Next morning, leaving Millie still asleep and looking touchingly young and vulnerable with her face tear-stained, and her curls matted around her forehead, Eliza got up early. She crept downstairs to the back yard where she held her head under the pump, allowing the cool water to wash away the traces of last night’s storm of emotion. Drying her hair on a scrap of towelling, she went into the living room and dressed herself in her plain, grey gown. She was about to take the mourning brooch from the mantelshelf but she hesitated, running the tips of her fingers over the glass dome and the silver mount. The pale lock of plaited hair lying on a bed of silk was now as faded as the daguerreotype of her mother, who had lived for so long in her imagination but was now just a ghostly image on a piece of tin. With one last tender touch of her finger, Eliza left the brooch where it was. The time for grieving was past and she must face up to the future on her own. Sentiment must be set aside and she must not show herself to the world as a vulnerable young woman: if she was to succeed in a society run by men like Brigham Stone and Brandon Miller then she must use her brains and never let them spot her weaknesses. Brushing her hair vigorously, Eliza scraped it back from her face in a severe style, securing the bulk of it in a snood at the nape of her neck. She had never thought herself particularly pretty, and she was mystified why men seemed to find her attractive, but that only led to trouble. She intended to appear mature and businesslike when she met Brigham Stone’s man at the chandlery. He would probably try to haggle and do her down as to the amount of money to recompense for the ruined gown, but Mary’s job was at stake here. Eliza had no clear idea how they would repair the damage before young Miss Cynthia Wilkins arrived home from Hertfordshire, but she would think about that later.
