by Evie Grace
‘You have taken me by surprise. Thank you.’ A social gathering in her honour? She was eighteen years old, and restless. She hadn’t wandered further than two miles from Windmarsh Court for months. She had read every book in the library, walked every inch of the gardens, and painted a series of watercolours of the marsh birds and landscape. She yearned for passion and adventure. Perhaps this could be the start of it.
‘It would be the perfect opportunity to introduce her to a wider social circle,’ Mama said. ‘I could write to the Seddons at Sittingbourne, the Norths and the Throwleys. How about inviting some of the other members of the Board? They are gentlemen of stature and influence. Some of them must have sons of a suitable age, surely?’
Papa was on the Board of Guardians, responsible for managing the Union in Faversham. He took his role of helping the poor in the workhouse very seriously, even though Mama didn’t approve.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Are you trying to tell me that your associates have been blessed only with daughters?’ Mama said, her tone scathing. ‘Really, James.’
‘You know I don’t like to bring business – and that includes my charitable works – into the sanctuary of our home,’ Papa said, sounding annoyed. ‘Let me consider your suggestion. I will give you an answer tomorrow.’
‘Nanny has observed that the girl will need new clothes for such an occasion,’ Mama said, apparently satisfied with Papa’s response.
‘Then arrange for the dressmaker to call,’ Papa said more cheerfully.
‘Oh, Mama, can’t I go to Mrs Roache’s shop in person?’ Agnes asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ Papa said. ‘No, I forbid it.’
‘James, she can go with Nanny as chaperone – she has already offered. Miriam can look after Henry. It’s time that she experienced a little of the world beyond Windmarsh Court,’ Mama continued as Papa stroked his beard.
‘Anyone would think you were in a hurry to see her married,’ he said slowly.
‘Well, she can’t stay here for the rest of her life. I couldn’t contemplate having her here to look after us in our old age as my sister cares for my parents. She will require her own establishment.’
Mama flicked her fan open and started fanning furiously. Not for the first time, Agnes felt that she was nothing more than an inconvenience.
‘I wonder how your cousin Philip will find you when he comes to Windmarsh for the celebrations,’ she began again.
Agnes frowned.
‘He is not spoken for as yet,’ Mama went on. ‘He would make a suitable husband.’
‘Oh, Mama, you cannot be suggesting—’
‘You could do worse.’
‘Over my dead body, Louisa. It’s too soon to think about Agnes leaving us,’ Papa interrupted. ‘I should miss her far too much. Besides, much as I admire Philip for his determination in opposing my brother regarding his choice of profession, he isn’t for our daughter. She will marry up as we planned from the beginning.’
Agnes smiled, relieved that even if Mama was plotting a match between her and her cousin, there was no way her father would ever allow it.
Papa returned to the subject of Agnes’s birthday. ‘I’ll make the arrangements in advance for Agnes and Miss Treen to accompany me to Faversham in the carriage.’
‘I should like to see the brewery,’ Agnes said.
‘There is no need for you to worry your head about the brewery,’ he said with a smile. ‘It will fall to Master Henry to manage the family business in the future. Your destiny is to marry well, bear children, and oversee the running of a grand household, just like your mother.’
Why was Nanny teaching her about Italy and poetry if she was to become a wife like Mama? she wondered.
‘I wish that you would come with us too, Louisa,’ Papa went on.
‘I couldn’t possibly countenance travelling to Faversham – you know what effect it has on my nerves. I shall spend the day quietly at home.’
‘As you always do,’ Papa said, downcast. He turned his eyes to the flames that flickered in the fireplace, obviously irritated by his wife’s decision, but Agnes wondered if there was something else troubling him. Was he unwell, or worrying about the brewery?
It wasn’t long before she was tasked with taking Henry back to the nursery.
‘We are going to Faversham,’ she told Nanny as she started putting Henry to bed. ‘Papa has agreed. What did you say to persuade Mama that we should have a party at Windmarsh?’
‘I reminded her of your birthday.’
‘Had she forgotten?’ Nanny didn’t comment. Of course she had forgotten, Agnes thought.
The next few days were taken up with making arrangements for the trip to Faversham and the gathering at Windmarsh Court two weeks after that. Papa agreed to Mama’s guest list, including the gentlemen of the Board and their families. Agnes wrote the invitations and posted them – along with letters that Nanny had written – one day while she, Nanny and Henry were out on their usual walk. Mama met with Mrs Catchpole and Cook to choose the menu for the guests and decorations for the table. For the first time in ages, the house was a hive of activity.
Papa sat opposite Agnes in the carriage on the way to Faversham on a freezing late November morning. He was dressed in a silk hat and heavy coat with silver buttons that matched the silver top of his ebony cane. His beard was bushier than ever, but the coppery colour had been toned down by the appearance of a smattering of white hairs. Outside the carriage, a biting wind swept across the marsh.
‘You are cold,’ said Papa. ‘Would you like a blanket?
‘No, thank you, Papa.’ She had arranged her foot warmer – a wooden box containing a tray of hot coals – at her feet with her skirt hanging over it to trap the heat. If she had shivered, it was with excitement and anticipation, not from the chill in the air.
‘I shall take advantage of it then,’ Nanny said from beside her. She was past forty now and although she looked much younger, unworn by the trials of marriage and childbirth, she complained frequently of pains in her knees. She was wearing her Sunday best and had scrubbed her face so hard for the occasion that her cheeks were high with colour.
Papa handed her the blanket.
Agnes looked back at the house and waved to Henry, who was standing at the nursery window where he had been left to spend the day with Miriam.
As they travelled, Agnes gazed at the passing scenery while Nanny kept her eyes firmly closed and Papa occupied himself with looking at some papers. When the spire of the parish church came into view, he put down his work and drew the curtains.
‘Oh, Papa,’ Agnes sighed.
‘It’s best not to draw attention to ourselves,’ he said.
She opened her mouth to question him, but thought better of it as Nanny gave her a nudge with her elbow. It wasn’t her place to question the authority of her father, but it seemed a strange precaution to take, unless it was because he was in a hurry to get to business at the brewery and didn’t want to be waylaid by anyone. She frowned. Surely, everyone recognised the carriage as belonging to the Berry-Clays anyway. Unless, she thought, he didn’t want anyone to know she had accompanied him. Was he ashamed of her for some reason?
‘Are you quite well, Miss Treen?’ Papa enquired.
‘It is the motion of the carriage, Mr Berry-Clay. I shall be better when we are back on terra firma.’
‘Which won’t be long. We are just arriving at the brewery,’ he said as the carriage lurched around a corner and pulled up on the cobbles. Noakes yelled at the horses to stand still and the door came open.
‘Good morning, sir.’ One of the draymen lowered the step. Papa alighted first, followed by Nanny who looked as if she was about to faint. Agnes stepped down behind them and took a deep breath of hot malt, yeast and bitter hops.
The brew house and tower were in front of her, the date 1745 inscribed in stone above the entrance. To her left were offices, a malt house and cooperage, and to her right was another buildin
g that held the stalls for the dray horses. Behind her was the rear of the tap house where the Berry-Clays sold beer direct to the public.
‘It is quite an enterprise, is it not?’ Papa said, his voice filled with pride.
‘It is indeed,’ Agnes said, listening to the sounds of the brewery: a blacksmith, hammering a shoe on to a horse’s hoof; the low vibration of the machinery operating the leather conveyor belt which carried the fine malt grist sixty feet to the top of the tower; a cooper laughing with one of the draymen as he overhauled a damaged barrel; a horse whinnying from its stall.
‘I shall go to my office while you ladies spend the family fortune.’ Papa’s eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘Look at how I wear myself out to keep the dressmakers of Faversham in clover.’
Agnes buried her gloved hands deep inside her fur muff. She had no idea what dresses cost. Nanny had taught her that it was vulgar for a lady to discuss money. Finance was a gentleman’s responsibility.
‘Miss Treen, it will take me several hours to conduct my business – I suggest that you meet me back here at three o’clock. Promise me that you’ll keep to the main streets and take luncheon at the Ship Hotel – I have an account there. Mention my name and they will find you a private room where you will be safe from unwanted attention. Many people pass through this town: revenue and excise men, all kinds of journeymen, couriers, the military, preachers … Some are respectable fellows, but many are scoundrels.’ He smiled again and wished them good day before turning and walking towards the brew house.
‘Your father is the most considerate gentleman in all of Kent,’ Nanny said. ‘Let us walk before we freeze to death.’
They attended the dressmaker first. It was a spacious establishment, Agnes thought as they stepped inside. It smelled of lavender, roses and fresh linen, and there was a counter with an archway behind it, and shelves containing rows of materials: silks, satins, muslins and cottons of every colour of the rainbow.
A woman who was about the same age as Mama, wearing a blue dress with elaborate ruffles and undersleeves, stepped through the arch from the back of the shop. Agnes had met her when she had visited Windmarsh Court in the past. She was tall with dark hair, a widow’s peak and pale – almost white – eyebrows and lashes.
‘Good morning, Mrs Roache,’ Nanny said. ‘I believe you are expecting us.’
‘Miss Berry-Clay and Miss Treen, I’m delighted to renew our acquaintance. Come this way.’ The dressmaker showed them to an alcove to one side of the counter, and called for a girl to take their coats. ‘Please, take a seat so that we can discuss your exact requirements,’ Mrs Roache continued. ‘Your mama sent word that a pale grey or deep green silk would suit your complexion, and that she isn’t keen on red. You require three dresses à la mode, laced corsets and petticoats.’
‘I believe that is Mama’s wish,’ Agnes said, although she coveted the scarlet velvet that she had seen on the shelves. She wasn’t sure about her mother’s knowledge of current fashions and she certainly didn’t want to dress like her any longer in pale hues that sapped the complexion.
‘What do you think of this?’ Mrs Roache showed her a drawing from a pattern book of a woman with acres of skirt and a tightly laced bodice. ‘I can see that in a French silk – we have this beautiful shade of pale grey, almost white.’ She nodded at the girl, who spread the end of a roll across the table.
‘I think your mama would be happy with that one,’ Nanny said. ‘It is suitably demure for a young lady.’
Agnes sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to be demure. She wished to be noticed. She had a vague, romantic notion that if she did ever have the chance of attending a party where there were young men present, her style of dress would do as much to attract their attention and interest as her conversation, singing voice and knowledge of geography.
‘So we are agreed on that one.’ Mrs Roache asked the girl to put the roll of material and the pattern aside. ‘Let’s examine the green silks next.’
Agnes noticed that Nanny kept glancing at the clock.
The girl fetched two shades of green, one deep like a wine bottle, the other brighter, like emeralds.
‘I prefer the lighter shade,’ Agnes said quickly.
‘It is perfect for you,’ Mrs Roache said, holding it up to Agnes’s face. ‘It complements your eyes.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Nanny began.
‘Yes, that is my second choice,’ Agnes said quickly, cutting her off.
Mrs Roache smiled. ‘An excellent decision. You have an eye for colour, Miss Berry-Clay.’
‘I should like to see the scarlet velvet next, if I may,’ she said politely but firmly.
‘Of course you may. You are the customer, and the customer may request whatever she wants,’ Mrs Roache said with humour.
‘Oh no, miss, I would counsel you not to go against your mama’s direction,’ Nanny said.
‘It’s my decision. I will take responsibility for my choices. I should like to see the scarlet,’ Agnes repeated, in defiance of her governess’s disapproving frown.
‘Are you sure that a practical navy serge like mine wouldn’t be more appropriate for the third dress?’
‘Surely you know that you don’t wear serge to parties. These outfits are for social occasions, not every day. You are supposed to be my chaperone, not my fashion adviser.’ Agnes felt a little guilty for being sharp with her dear governess, who was only trying to help her avoid any unpleasantness with Mama, but she adored the scarlet cloth. She could picture it made into the most delectable dress with a low-cut bodice and lace to protect her modesty. ‘I like this very much.’
‘In that case, I shall take your measurements in preparation for making your dresses. If you’d care to step this way.’ Mrs Roache showed them into the room at the rear of the shop.
There was a doorway leading into another room behind that where she could see four women at work. One was laying out a pattern on to a piece of fabric at a large table. Another was pinning and cutting. The third and fourth were sewing.
‘That is the workshop where everything is done by hand with great precision and care,’ Mrs Roache said. She proceeded to measure Agnes with a tape, writing down the length of her arms, width of her shoulders and circumference of her waist in a notebook. Eventually, she decided that she had enough information to work with and printed out the details of the order.
‘You are welcome to return for a fitting once the order is completed, or I can arrange to call at Windmarsh Court with the items.’
‘Oh, I should like to come back to the shop,’ Agnes said.
‘I think it best that you call at the house,’ Nanny said. ‘It’s what your father would prefer.’
Reluctantly Agnes agreed and confirmed the order with her signature.
When she and Nanny were back outside the shop, she wondered briefly if she could give her the slip and explore on her own, but she knew that if she stepped out of line, she would never be allowed to forget it and there would be no chance of keeping the red velvet dress.
‘I had planned to show you the creek, but your papa has asked me to keep to the main streets,’ Nanny said, glancing over her shoulder as if she was expecting to find someone staring down her neck.
‘You’re as nervous as a bird,’ Agnes observed.
Nanny turned and took her by the hands.
‘Listen to me,’ she said in a low voice. ‘This is very important. You have to promise me that you can keep a secret.’
‘That’s a strange request. What kind of secret?’
‘I have to know that I can trust you not to breathe a word of this to anyone, not Henry, not Miriam, not your parents, not Mrs Catchpole.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ As far as she knew, keeping secrets and telling lies had a habit of getting one into trouble.
‘Promise me,’ Nanny repeated.
Agnes nodded. ‘Is it about a gentleman?’ she asked.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I thoug
ht with the letter that came and all the secrecy, you might have been arranging a clandestine meeting. I don’t mind. It’s wonderfully romantic. Although Henry and I will miss you when—’
‘Agnes, you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I am not being courted, more’s the pity, and if I were, I would never risk my place by indulging in the pursuit of love while at work and holding responsibility for the moral welfare of a susceptible young lady. There are many who have lost their incomes through their indiscretions, and I shall not be one of them,’ Nanny said. ‘I will explain when there are fewer pairs of ears around to hear us. This has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you.’
Chapter Six
Half a Sixpence
‘What is it?’ Agnes followed her governess along the street. ‘Please don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Hush,’ Nanny said. ‘Hold your tongue.’
They passed the timber-framed Guildhall which stood on stilts. Beneath it the market traders were busily selling butter, cheese, fruit and other provisions.
‘The freshest dabs you’ve ever sin,’ crowed the man at the fish stall, which was piled high with flatfish, cod, cockles and whelks. The fish seemed to stare at her with their dead eyes, Agnes thought, hurrying past to avoid the smell of stale seaweed. ‘They’re cheap at the price, ladies. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.’
‘No, thank you,’ Nanny said, hurrying along.
They crossed the iron footbridge and made their way past the tall quayside buildings to Crab Island, where there was a partially built timber hull and several boats lined up for maintenance and repair in the shipyard.
‘I think it’s safe to talk here.’ Nanny stopped.
Was it? Agnes wondered. ‘You’re frightening me.’
‘Steel yourself, my dear. I received a letter recently from a woman whom I had thought long dead. In fact, your father had informed me of that fact, so imagine my surprise when I heard she was alive and well.’
‘Do stop talking in riddles.’
‘I am speaking of your mother, not Mama, the other one.’
