London Lodgings

by Claire Rayner

  ‘You must introduce me, Tilly,’ Dorcas said softly from somewhere behind Tilly’s left ear. ‘It is clear you have met an old friend.’

  ‘What? Oh, no! I mean, not precisely. Mr Leland, this is Mrs Oliver who – she has rooms at my house. I am her landlady.’ She lifted her chin and said with a hint of wickedness, ‘I told you I was in trade as you are yourself. Mrs Oliver, of course, is not.’

  Quite why she had made that sharp little comment she did not know; she had not meant it to sound as waspish as she suspected it had. But her companion seemed not to have heard anything untoward, for they were shaking hands in a friendly fashion and James Leland was saying, ‘I am honoured, Ma’am,’ and Dorcas was saying, ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir. You have a most charming establishment here,’ – and neither was paying Tilly any attention at all.

  ‘It will be better when I am able to expand a little,’ James said. ‘It is still very small, but Charlie Harrod and I – he owns the grocer’s shop along the Buildings – we have ideas that may serve to enlarge our premises. In the meantime I am able to hold some stock of linens and other drapery, if I am careful about storage.’

  ‘I am sure you have an excellent range,’ Dorcas said. ‘And excellent linens too. So, while Tilly matches her silks, will you show me your curtain stuffs, Mr Leland? It will save time Tilly, and leave us enough to visit Knightsbridge after all, will it not?’

  ‘Oh – er – yes,’ Tilly said, and again was swept along with Dorcas’s plans whether she wanted to be or not. And how could she object? It would be well worth a visit to Knights-bridge if, as a result, she found her mother’s spoons again. The chances of their still being at the jeweller’s shop were slender; but it would be a great worry to her if she did not try; and Dorcas’s plan for their shopping would provide time for that. So how could she argue?

  Mr Leland seemed as swept along as she was. He fetched a tray of silks for her to match and sat her on a comfortable chair by the door so that she had the best of the light. Then he led Dorcas away to the back of the small shop where Tilly could hear them laughing and chattering over swatches of curtain fabric, as she set skein after skein of silk against the patterns of poplin she was using for Duff’s shirts. She had planned to embroider the collars and cuffs with small designs, since he was still a small enough boy to be permitted such fancies in his clothes, and she sat there doggedly until she had the necessary skeins and then got to her feet and bore the tray of silks to the mahogany counter and set it down with a small thud.

  But they did not seem to hear her above their own chatter and she went deeper into the shop to find them. The scene she saw when she turned a corner made by a pile of bolts of muslin window netting, was pretty in the extreme. Dorcas was sitting on a low stool with swathes of fabric of various colours and weaves spread on the floor in front of her. Her elegant red shoes peeped out from beneath her black silk skirt and her face glowed in the reflection of her scarlet shirt.

  James Leland was crouching at her feet, talking earnestly to her about the fabrics as she sat there looking intently into his eyes; and Tilly stopped short at the sight of them. She felt as though intruding on them would be an embarrassment, and essayed a little cough.

  James heard her and scrambled to his feet at once. ‘Mrs Quentin? We have here some half dozen that Madam likes.’

  ‘Oh, I am Mrs Oliver!’ Dorcas said. You must not be so remote with me!’

  ‘Mrs Oliver,’ James said. ‘And she wishes only that you choose which you like.’

  ‘The price is not important, Tilly,’ Dorcas called. ‘I want only the best for our rooms. And for your house of course.’ And she dimpled up at James Leland as if to say, see how generous I am? Tilly could have cuffed her.

  But she just bit her lip and cast her eyes swiftly over the proffered lengths of fabric. ‘I will take that and that,’ she said, pointing. This lilac for the drapes, for that will go well with the blue of the carpet and the muslin for the close curtains. And for the other room, that yellow with the toning nets. The measures are here.’ She reached into her reticule and pulled out the piece of paper on which she had written her careful calculations for the curtains. ‘And if you will deliver them as soon as may be, Mr Leland, I will be grateful.’

  ‘I would be happy to help with the cutting of these, if you wish, Mrs Quentin,’ James said with some eagerness. ‘I have learned this skill and I know how to cut them so that there is the greatest economy. The sewing then is very simple.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Leland, will you do that?’ Dorcas cried. ‘That would be most kind. Now, let me see – I shall be ready to start the sewing tomorrow – no, do not look so anxious, Tilly. I am quite set on making these curtains myself. And if Mr Leland will cut them for us at home that will be splendid. Will you come tomorrow evening, Mr Leland? Eliza will show you up to my rooms, and I will be ready for you at – let me see, shall we say seven o’clock? Splendid. There, Tilly – have you chosen your silks? Good! Then we must be on our way to Knightsbridge. Goodbye for the present, Mr Leland. It has been a great pleasure to meet you.’ And she led the way out into Brompton with a flash of scarlet ankles at such speed that Tilly had to run to follow her.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  TILLY HAD FINISHED embroidering Duff’s shirts long before Dorcas finished sewing the bedroom curtains.

  February melted into March and Duff started school with great excitement and some trepidation but settled quickly enough in the familiar company of not only the Misses K and F, but also Sophie whose adoring shadow he had become. And still Dorcas needed to ask Jem Leland to call, to advise her and instruct her in the next stage of making the curtains.

  He would arrive most evenings not long after they had dined and while Dorcas was still sitting at the table with Tilly, toying with one of Eliza’s splendid puddings, for which she had developed a great gift now she had her new stove.

  The door knocker would sound and Eliza would cast her gaze up to the ceiling in exasperation and go stomping across the hall to let him in. He would come to the dining-room – Dorcas had cried cheerfully on his first visit that there was no need for formality, surely – and stand silently as Dorcas chattered brightly at him for a while before taking him away upstairs to her sitting room, begging Eliza as she went to bring, if she would, a tray of madeira and ratafias. Eliza would do so willingly enough: she had no objection to pleasing Dorcas, but a good deal of reservation about Jem Leland.

  ‘It don’t seem right to me, Mum,’ she said earnestly to Tilly on the first occasion she voiced her objections, ‘him being in trade an’ all. It’s one thing to come to the kitchen to talk to me with Charlie, another entirely to take it on himself to come to the front door like any gentleman and expect to be treated according.’

  ‘I see no reason why he should not, Eliza,’ Tilly said. ‘It is not as though we were not ourselves trade people, after all. I am but a lodging housekeeper. Any notions I may have had when I was younger of being a lady, above considerations of making my own living, have long since been pushed out of me!’

  ‘You’re a lady, Mum, and there’s an end of it,’ Eliza said sharply. ‘I’ll not have no one treating you except with the highest of respect at all times. And it ain’t fully respectful for tradesmen to come callin’ at the front door in this fashion for Mrs Oliver.’

  ‘But she is –’ Tilly was about to remind Eliza that Dorcas had started her career as a housemaid, but realized that this might seem as though she were making disparaging remarks about Eliza herself, and desisted. Instead she said mildly, ‘Her husband was but a soldier.’

  ‘An ’ero, Mum,’ Eliza said. ‘Mr Oliver was from all accounts a most brave soldier and of high reputation. That makes all the difference. She’s your tenant, anyhow, like the Misses K and F, whatever she was when she started life, and that makes her a lady. But it don’t make a gentleman of Jem Leland,’ And she went marching down to the kitchen with her tray of dishes, looking far from happy.

  Tilly
was unhappy too but for a different reason. She could not, however, say what that reason was. Dorcas’s choice of friends was no concern of hers; Tilly was but her landlady and as such had no right to an opinion about her behaviour. She did not feel that there was any lack of propriety in Jem’s interest in Dorcas; as she told Eliza, she had quite accustomed herself to the idea that her present station in life was firmly amongst tradespeople.

  Perhaps it was fear that the young man and Dorcas might make a match of it? It was very clear to Tilly that Dorcas’s interest in Jem Leland went far beyond curtains; and why not? He was a well set up young man, and looked to be about thirty years old or thereabouts; an excellent age to be wed. He could make a good husband for Dorcas, Tilly told herself, and no doubt an excellent Papa for Sophie, who might learn to be a little less imperious if she experienced the restraining hand of a father.

  Or am I fearful of losing her as a tenant? she asked herself and was able to be quite certain of her reply. She certainly was not; indeed, losing Dorcas could be from her own point of view quite agreeable, sisterly though their link might be, and however much it might distress Duff to lose Sophie. She would still, after all, have the items of furniture and kitchen equipment for which Dorcas had paid; she had made it very clear when she installed them that she regarded them now as part of the house rather than her own possessions, and there was no doubt in Tilly’s mind that she had meant what she said. She was far too careless about money, being a positive spendthrift, in Tilly’s estimation, to take such things away again. So losing Dorcas would mean only that she, Tilly would be left with excellent chambers to offer to a new tenant who, though she might not pay so well, would be less of a source of confusion and irritation to Tilly. Any sense of need for Dorcas’s company, which was one of the reasons she allowed her to move into the house in the first place, had been firmly erased by the experience of living with her ever since: no, letting Dorcas go would not be painful.

  Later, as she sat over her own sewing in the drawing-room, she reminded herself that the friendship between Dorcas and Jem Leland was none of her concern. None at all. But it was remarkably difficult to obey her own commands.

  It was in April that the matter came to a head at last. The curtains were finished and had been hung in the rooms occupied by Dorcas and Sophie and duly admired. They were certainly of a very fancy style, being much swagged and draped and decorated with braid, and it was clear to Tilly that Jem Leland had taught his customer well, and she said as much to him as they stood and looked solemnly at the well-dressed windows.

  ‘As to that, I had small choice,’ he said in a low voice. Dorcas had been distracted by Sophie’s wish to tug at the curtains to see how they drew at night, and was remonstrating with her. In the middle of the resulting fracas, it was possible for Tilly and Jem to speak without being overheard. ‘I was under some pressure, Mrs Quentin, and found it difficult to –’

  ‘Oh, Jem,’ Dorcas called fretfully. ‘See what this little wretch has done! She has pulled a thread. Will the damage spread, do you think, or is it possible to repair it at once?’

  He glanced over at Tilly and then moved across to the window, as the now bawling Sophie, who had been soundly pinched by her irate Mamma for her naughtiness, was led away by Eliza followed by a worried Duff, who could not bear to see his beloved in any sort of scrape. Tilly remained where she was, by the door, watching.

  He bent to look at the damage and Dorcas bent down in the same posture to look more closely also, and it seemed to Tilly was a deal nearer to him than she had any real need to be. Suddenly Tilly felt herself blushing hotly. There was a physical tension in the room that seemed to communicate itself to her, and she felt it crawl through her body in a way she found startling to say the least. It was just the sort of frisson she had sometimes experienced at the age of sixteen when she had been engaged to Frank, and she stepped back and said in a tight little voice, They are excellent curtains, Dorcas. I congratulate you on your needlework,’ and escaped, running down the stairs as fast as she could.

  As she passed the door to the bedroom next to the one that had been her own, long ago, and which was now occupied by Miss Knapp, she caught her breath and had to stand with one hand against the wall; for something had happened to shock her profoundly.

  A vision appeared in her mind’s eye, so vivid that it was as though she were looking at reality. She saw herself in her drawers and chemise on her wedding day, standing at the door of the same room looking at the brass bedstead and the piled up blankets and sheets; she saw Dorcas in a cascade of petticoat frills, lying on her back on the bed with her knees bent and spread wide, and kneeling on the floor in front of her, her bridegroom Frank, fiddling with his trouser buttons.

  Her head swam and she took a deep breath and waited for the sensation of giddiness to pass. What had possessed her to permit such a vision to overwhelm her? Was she not a grown woman now, in control of all that happened to her? She should not let such foolishness intrude.

  She had not heard his footsteps on the carpeted stairs, had not been aware that he was there until she felt his arm across her shoulders.

  ‘Mrs Quentin! Are you ill? Permit me to take you to a sofa.’

  ‘I am perfectly – I am all right,’ she tried to say but her voice was pinched and tight and he did not seem to hear as he bent and picked her up. He was not a great deal taller than she was, but was certainly stockier and seemed to have no difficulty with her weight. She tried to protest, finding his proximity surprisingly powerful. Ignoring her pleas, he carried her to the drawing-room door, kicked it open and bore her inside and set her down with great care on the sofa near the fireplace. She let her head rest on the cushions gratefully and closed her eyes. Perhaps if she remained very quiet he would go away.

  But he did not, and she was very aware of him standing there beside her. Her eyes snapped open as she heard Dorcas’s voice, loud and crisp, at the door of the drawing-room.

  ‘What’s amiss? Is she ill?’

  ‘I fear so. I found her almost swooning.’ He bent his head to look at Tilly. ‘Are you feeling a little better yet?’

  ‘Smelling salts,’ said Dorcas confidently and came across the room, reaching into the pocket in her skirt as she did so. She almost pushed Jem Leland aside and crouched beside the sofa.

  ‘Now, Tilly, what is it? You must not get into your old ways of sickness, you know!’

  Tilly opened her mouth to protest; she had not been all that sickly as a child, she was sure; but Dorcas thrust a bottle of smelling salts beneath her nose and the reek of the ammonia made her cough and choke, and her eyes ran painfully.

  Dorcas took the bottle away at last and said with some satisfaction, There! I am sure she will be very well now. Best to come away, Jem. I will take care of her now.’

  ‘I do not need taking care of,’ Tilly managed and sat up gingerly, reaching for her handkerchief which was tucked into her waistband. She mopped her streaming eyes and looked up at them both. ‘I would be grateful please, if you would leave me be. I am perfectly well. It was but a temporary matter.’

  ‘I will not go until you have your maid with you,’ Jem said firmly and Dorcas turned her head to stare at him.

  ‘Oh, come Jem, you must not make too much of female megrims, you know!’

  ‘I do not need my maid!’ Tilly said crossly. She was feeling better by the moment and now swung her legs from the sofa and set them on the floor, finding the movement of air agreeable as her skirts settled softly around them. ‘Please leave me, both of you. I am perfectly well, I do insist.’

  ‘Oh, well then, we had better go!’ Dorcas said brightly and with a swish of her own skirts went over to the door. ‘Come along, Jem!’

  ‘I will wait on you later to ensure you are all right,’ he said in a low voice, and at last the door closed and she was able to relax again. And now she did lie back on the sofa, for in truth her head was still a touch giddy and she needed time to think.

  Why in the name of all th
at was sensible had she behaved so absurdly? Why had such memories come to her after all this time? She had not been at all disturbed by the lack of a man in her life since Frank died. There had been so much to do and think about; the matter of her property and of course beloved Duff. She thought about him as she lay there, remembering him as a greedy baby at her breast and later as he learned to sit and then crawl and at last to walk, and how much joy he had given her: he had filled many gaps in her life that she had not even known were there. Now he was at school all day, of course it was different. He returned home with Sophie at two in the afternoon, by which time they both needed a nap, so it was not until the late afternoon that she could spend much time with him. In the three hours between waking him from his nap at four and his bedtime at seven she spent as much time with him as she could, or rather that he could spare from his play with Sophie, and that had to suffice for her. Was that why she had been so overwhelmed this morning? Had seeing love burgeoning between two people, as it clearly was between Dorcas and Jem, aroused jealousy in her? If so, she hated herself. It was an ugly emotion and one that shamed her.

  She slept for a little while and woke only when an anxious Eliza came to seek her. She was amazed to discover that Tilly had had a disagreeable experience. She had not been told of it by Dorcas until just before luncheon time, when Eliza enquired if she had seen her mistress and Dorcas told her offhandedly what had transpired. Now Eliza was very angry indeed.

  ‘You’d ha’ thought she’d ha’ come and told me, Mum, wouldn’t you? Leavin’ you here all on your own and you feeling not so wonderful – why, it’s little short of disgraceful.’

  ‘It’s not important, Eliza,’ Tilly said wearily. ‘I am indeed in perfect health. I simply had a – a headache. I am quite fit now. I shall take luncheon here on a tray, if you please. That will suit me perfectly. I shall come down later to see the woman when she fetches back the washing. Let me know when she arrives as I must speak to her about the finish of Duff’s shirts. It’s not adequate. It is your free afternoon today, though, is it not? Tell Lucy to call me then.’