by Dilly Court
‘You are now a respectable married woman. You must realise that we have to be very careful whom we select to work for our charity.’ Adela’s small eyes narrowed and a muscle in her jaw twitched.
‘I don’t think the unfortunates who are starving on the streets care who fills their bowls with soup.’
‘Then you’ll join us?’
‘No. Thank you for your offer, but I’m afraid it’s come too late.’
Adela’s jaw dropped and she rose to her feet in a flurry of silk petticoats. ‘There’s no need to take that tone with me, Mrs Kettle.’
‘There was no need for you to refuse my help in such an insulting manner just because I was down on my luck. However, I will ask my husband to make a donation to your fund, and you can find someone else to peel potatoes and carrots.’
A whole range of emotions flitted across Adela Hamilton’s face. ‘I’ll take my leave then.’ She made a move towards the door, stopping to turn her head with a spiteful sneer. ‘And I wish you joy of a marriage to an elderly gentleman. If I were not a lady I would say that you are little better than an adventuress.’ She wrenched the door open and swept out of the room.
Forgetting that she was a lady, Mirabel poked her tongue out, and was instantly ashamed of the childish gesture more suited to Charity or Prudence Mutton than to Mrs Hubert Kettle. She went over to the table and picked up the daguerreotype which had caught Adela’s eye, and found herself staring down at the faded sepia image of a beautiful young Indian woman. It seemed odd that she had not noticed it before, but Adela had been quick to spot the exotic beauty, and was more than likely to have assumed the worst. She would undoubtedly take great pleasure in entertaining her society friends with the story of Hubert Kettle’s involvement with a native woman. The large doe-eyes stared back at Mirabel from behind the glass, and she found herself consumed with curiosity. Slipping the frame into her pocket, she went in search of her husband.
She found him, as she had expected, in the conservatory. He was intent on his task and appeared to be painting the exquisite face of an orchid. ‘What are you doing, Hubert?’
He turned his head to give her a brief smile. ‘I’m pollinating,’ he said calmly. ‘There are no insects to do this for me at this time of year. It’s a trick I learned from my friend Frederick Sander. You’ve heard of him, no doubt?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘He’s an orchidologist and nurseryman with premises in St Albans and I’ve been dealing with him for many years. I’ve purchased most of my best specimens from him.’
‘That’s very interesting, Hubert.’ She hesitated, taking the daguerreotype from her pocket. Why, she wondered, had he never mentioned the young woman? She must have meant a great deal to him or he would not have treasured her portrait. ‘I’ve just had a visit from Adela Hamilton,’ she said tentatively.
‘Really?’ He did not sound particularly interested. He went back to his task with an intense look of concentration, biting his lip as he performed the delicate operation.
She tried again. ‘Mrs Hamilton wanted me to return to the soup kitchen to help them.’
‘Did she, my dear?’
‘I said no, because I . . .’ She faltered. It seemed childish to say that she refused out of pique. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d be too busy helping you, but I said you might give them a donation.’
‘Of course. It’s a good cause.’
‘And she was studying this portrait when I found her in the parlour.’ She held it in front of his nose. ‘Who is she?’
He stopped what he was doing to take the frame from her. ‘Anjuli,’ he murmured, gazing down at the faded image. ‘I’m sorry, Mirabel. I should have packed this away with the rest of the mementoes of my time in India.’
‘Who is she?’ Mirabel repeated, sensing a romance, which she found oddly touching.
‘She was a high-born lady.’ He hesitated as if struggling to find the right words to describe something that obviously meant a great deal to him. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘She’s beautiful. How did you come to know her?’
‘I was stationed in Delhi. We met at a ball in the British Consulate and we fell in love. It was as simple as that.’
Mirabel put her head on one side, eyeing him curiously. ‘It’s never as simple as that, Hubert.’
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It was an unlikely match. She was just twenty and I was forty-four: a confirmed bachelor, or so I thought. But the moment I saw her I knew I was lost, and for some reason I’ve never been able to understand, she felt the same.’
‘That’s very romantic. What happened?’
‘The mutiny,’ he said simply. ‘We all knew that trouble was brewing, but the suddenness of the violence still took us by surprise.’
‘So your love affair ended?’
‘Her father forbade her to have anything to do with me, and I can’t say I blame him. But Anjuli had a mind of her own.’ A smile softened his expression and his eyes misted with tears. ‘I only discovered afterwards, from her ayah, that Anjuli had defied her father and had slipped out of the palace one night to warn me of impending danger. She was caught up in a skirmish between sepoys and British soldiers and killed by a single shot.’ He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I should have told you all this before, but it was so long ago. I thought I had buried the past in my heart, but it still hurts.’
She laid her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t apologise, Hubert. I understand, and I’m so sorry. She must have been a wonderful woman.’
He nodded his head. ‘You reminded me of her from the first moment I saw you in Tenter Street.’
‘I’m flattered, but I’m not Anjuli.’
‘Of course not, and I respect you for who you are, Mirabel. I count myself very fortunate to have persuaded you to be the companion of my declining years, but I owe you an apology for not telling you the whole truth.’
‘There’s no need. We had an agreement and I’m prepared to honour it. You’ve given me a home and the protection of your good name, although according to Mrs Hamilton I’m an adventuress who married you for your money.’
‘We both know that’s untrue.’
‘It’s what everyone will think, and I’m afraid I’ve made an enemy of Mrs Hamilton by refusing to help in the soup kitchen.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear girl. I’ll silence her with a generous donation to her cause.’
‘I don’t care what anyone says, I’m determined to make you a good wife.’
‘You’re a very special young woman, and I will do everything in my power to make you happy.’ Hubert slipped the daguerreotype into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll put this away where it belongs.’
‘No, don’t do that.’ She shook her head. ‘Let it remain where you can still see it. I’m not jealous of a ghost.’ She picked up the paintbrush. ‘Will you teach me how to pollinate these beautiful blooms?’
Hubert’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘It’s very delicate work, but if you’re really interested I’d be more than happy to teach you everything I know.’ He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘I never expected anything like this from you, Mirabel. It’s very exciting.’ He frowned, peering at a thermometer set on small marble obelisk. ‘The temperature is dropping. I must stoke the fire in the boiler house.’
‘How often do you have to do that?’ Mirabel asked as a sudden thought occurred to her. ‘It must entail a lot of effort.’
‘It does, I’m afraid.’ Hubert reached for his jacket and shrugged it on. ‘Particularly in this freezing weather, but I can’t allow the temperature to fall too low or my precious orchids will die.’
‘Why don’t you employ a man to do the work for you, Hubert?’
He frowned. ‘I suppose I could. I’ve never considered it before because my whole life has centred around my collection. It would have to be someone trustworth
y and completely reliable.’
‘I think I might know the ideal person,’ Mirabel said, smiling.
Alf Coker was sitting at the table holding his head in his hands. ‘Shut the bloody door, Tilda,’ he snapped without looking up. ‘It’s cold enough in here without you letting in the draught.’
‘Pa, I ain’t alone.’ Tilda glanced anxiously at Mirabel who was standing in the doorway. ‘He’s not always like this, missis.’
‘You call her Mrs Kettle or ma’am,’ Gertie hissed, giving Tilda a shove so that she stumbled, almost tripping over her youngest sister who was sitting on the floor gnawing a bone more suitable for a dog than a toddler.
Alf rose to his feet. ‘Why did you bring her here again, Tilda? Ain’t it bad enough we has to live like rats in a sewer without being the object of pity, dependent on the charity of others?’
Mirabel had come empty handed. Her first instinct had been to bring food for the children, but she remembered Alf Coker’s previous reaction and she realised that he was a proud man. She faced him with a steady look. ‘Good morning, Mr Coker. I’m sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if you could help me.’
‘Me? Help you?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said. I find myself in a difficult position and you would seem to be the ideal person to assist me.’
He dusted off the chair with a scrap of soiled towelling. ‘Won’t you take a seat, missis?’
‘Thank you.’ She was about to sit down when the child on the floor started to choke.
‘Oh Lord, she’s got a bit of bone stuck in her throat,’ Tilda wailed.
Mirabel scooped the little one up in her arms and put her finger into the toddler’s mouth, feeling for the object that was causing her to turn blue in the face. She hooked out a large piece of gristle and the choking stopped, but was replaced by a loud howl. Mirabel sat down, holding the baby close and rocking her in her arms. ‘There, there. It’s all right.’
Alf wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a swipe of his hand. ‘I thought she was a goner.’
Tilda snatched up the bone. ‘She shouldn’t have had this, Pa. It’s only fit for the glue factory, not for a little ’un like Kitty.’
‘She’s teething,’ Alf protested. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
Mirabel handed the sobbing child to Tilda. ‘Mr Coker, I have a proposition to put to you.’
His anxious gaze was fixed on his youngest child, but he flicked a curious glance in Mirabel’s direction. ‘What would the likes of you want with the likes of me?’
‘My husband grows exotic orchids. He needs help to stoke the boiler and keep the glasshouse at the right temperature.’
‘Why me, missis? You ain’t short of a bob or two, I can see that. I got rheumatics something chronic and there’s a limit to what I can do.’
‘It’s time-consuming but it’s not like the heavy work you must have done on the docks. My husband is not a young man. He would pay you a fair wage.’
‘Take it, Pa,’ Tilda urged. ‘Mr Kettle is all right, and he’s very old.’ She shot an apologetic look at Mirabel. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s true. His hair is as white as the snow afore it gets trod underfoot.’
‘I ain’t one to take charity,’ Alf said stubbornly.
Mirabel stood up. ‘I’m not offering you the work out of pity, Mr Coker. Take it or leave it, but I suggest you think it over carefully. If you want the job come tomorrow morning with Tilda and you’ll be shown what to do.’
Tilda nodded her head. ‘Jane can look after the little ’uns until I get home, Pa.’ She handed the baby to her sister, who had been listening wide-eyed to the conversation.
‘I can do it, Pa,’ Jane said, nodding fiercely. ‘Maybe the lady will bring us a basket of food again. I’m hungry.’
‘Me too.’ The two younger girls took their thumbs from their mouths to add their voices, and immediately plugged them in again.
‘All right,’ Alf said grudgingly. ‘But I don’t expect something for nothing. I’ll do a day’s labour for a day’s wage.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Mirabel opened her reticule and took out her purse. She placed a florin on the table. ‘An advance on your wages, Mr Coker.’ She made a move towards the doorway but Gertie was already there and had opened it wide. ‘Good day to you,’ Mirabel added, smiling. ‘I’ll see you and Tilda tomorrow.’
Outside in the street, Gertie turned to Mirabel with a frown. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? He looks like a rough type to me.’
‘Everyone deserves a chance, and he’s got all those small children to bring up. I’m sure Hubert will agree that he should be helped.’
Next morning Mirabel rose early, dressed and went down to the conservatory. It was still dark but light from several paraffin lamps spilled out of the windows and she could see Hubert already hard at work. She let herself in, closing the door quickly to keep the warm air in. ‘Hubert, I didn’t realise you were up so early.’
‘I don’t seem to need sleep much these days.’ He straightened up, gazing at her with a puzzled frown. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘No, not at all. In fact I think I may have the solution to your problem with stoking the boiler and the other heavy jobs that need doing.’
‘Really, Mirabel, you mustn’t interfere. I’ve managed my own affairs for more years than I care to remember. I don’t imagine you can do better.’
Hurt by his dismissive tone, she tossed her head. ‘I’m not trying to tell you how to do things, I just thought you could use some help.’
He put down the watering can. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to snap, but it is very early in the morning and I’m used to being on my own. I do things in my own way.’
‘And I’m not trying to interfere, as you put it. I just think you could use some help with the more mundane tasks, which would give you more time to do the important work.’
‘What do you suggest?’ He did not sound convinced.
The sound of footsteps outside made Mirabel turn her head. ‘Tilda’s father suffers from rheumatics and he can’t find work on the docks. He’s a widower with nine children to support, and some of them are little more than babies. Tilda is the eldest girl and you’ve seen how hard she works. They exist in dreadful conditions.’
Hubert glanced out of the window. ‘He’s probably lazy and not worth his hire. I’ve met his sort before.’
‘You don’t know that. Just give him a chance, that’s all I ask.’ She reached out to grasp the door handle. ‘Shall I let him in?’
‘I suppose so, but I’m not promising anything.’
Mirabel opened the door. ‘Come in and meet my husband, Mr Coker.’
Tilda mouthed her thanks and scuttled back along the path to the house, and Alf stepped inside. He stood to attention, staring straight ahead.
‘Are you a military man by any chance, Coker?’ Hubert moved closer, peering at him with sudden interest.
‘I was, sir.’
‘What regiment?’
‘The 56th (West Essex) Regiment of Foot, sir.’
‘Where did you serve?’
‘Bombay, until ’68, sir. I’d done my ten years and I left the army because the missis wanted to settle down. It’s a hard life for a regimental wife, sir.’
‘I’m told you’re willing to work hard, Coker.’
‘Indeed I am, sir.’
‘Come outside. I’ll show you the boiler room and explain what needs to be done. When can you start?’
‘Right away, sir. I was afraid we might end up having our Christmas dinner in the workhouse.’
Mirabel uttered a sigh of relief as she watched them step outside into the cold. They disappeared into the brick outhouse, but Alf’s words had reminded her that Christmas was almost upon them, and she had done nothing to prepare for the festivities. Her wedding and the beginning of a new life with Hubert had put all such thoughts out of her mind. She had relied heavily on Mrs Flitton, but it was time she asserted h
erself as mistress of the house. She slipped out of the conservatory and hurried to the kitchen, hugging her shawl around her.
Tilda was stoking the fire in the range and Mrs Flitton was at the kitchen table breaking eggs into a bowl. She looked up in surprise. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so early in the morning, ma’am.’
‘I’ve just realised that it’s Christmas Eve, Mrs Flitton,’ Mirabel said excitedly. ‘What do you normally do at this time of year?’
Mrs Flitton stared at her blankly. ‘What do I do, ma’am?’ She shook her head, puzzled. ‘The same as every other day, I suppose. I hadn’t given it much thought.’
The memory of Christmas in the past, before her father had come under the thrall of Ernestine Mutton, flashed into Mirabel’s mind, together with the rich aroma of roasting turkey, the spiciness of the pudding bubbling away in the copper, and the pine-scented tree laden with candles, glass baubles and tinsel. Pa had been kinder in those days and more generous. At home he had shown a nicer side to his nature than that which he presented to the outside world. They had been happy then, and she had had her dreaming place where she could sit and look up at the stars twinkling in the night sky, and allow her imagination full rein.
‘Did you want anything special, ma’am?’ Mrs Flitton’s sharp tone broke into her reverie.
‘No. I mean, yes. Of course we must celebrate Christmas properly. I daresay my husband had no taste for such celebrations in the past, but things will be different from now on.’
‘The master always attends church on Christmas Day,’ Mrs Flitton said, bristling. ‘Dinner consists of roast goose followed by apple pie, and I have the bird on order at the butcher’s.’
‘Then cancel it,’ Mirabel said recklessly. ‘Order a large turkey, Mrs Flitton. We’ll have stuffing and gravy and everything that goes with it, followed by Christmas pudding.’ She came to a halt, frowning. ‘Have you made a pudding this year?’
Mrs Flitton stiffened visibly. ‘I haven’t been required to do so, ma’am. The master likes simple food.’
‘Fortnum and Mason,’ Mirabel said eagerly. ‘Where’s Gertie? She should be up by now. We’ll take a hansom cab to Fortnum’s and buy whatever you haven’t got in store, Mrs Flitton.’
