Velvet

by Mary Hooper

  Madame’s success as a medium gathered momentum. Velvet sometimes saw a mention of her in a newspaper, and once overheard a woman in the street talking of some remarkable happening: ‘And Madame Savoya said she saw him actually standing there before her. Standing there – and him five years dead!’ Madame’s laundry boxes continued also, and although Velvet laid claim to several other regular customers, it was Madame’s clothes that she cherished. No other customer wore such wonderful materials in so many different fashions and styles, no other gowns had such lavish embroidery or bore such an extravagance of smocking, lace, tucking, ruffles and beads.

  It was a silk ruffle which led to a dreadful happening, however, for when Velvet was slowly and carefully twirling the frilled edge of one of Madame’s precious blouses, disaster struck. Something – afterwards she wracked her brains to think what it might have been – took her attention away from the job and she left the ruffle iron in position a moment longer than she should have done. A moment was all it needed: the tip of the iron became caught up and, in the blink of an eye, a flounce of purest silk melted into a shrivelled grey lump.

  ‘No!’ Velvet stared at the lump in horror, tears starting in her eyes. ‘Madame’s beautiful blouse!’ She touched the frizzled material with her fingertips. It bore a Parisian label and she didn’t dare to think what it must have cost.

  Hearing her cry out, the other girls turned to look and gasped or urged her to go and plunge the blouse into cold water. Mrs Sloane jumped down from her box and was on the spot almost immediately, snatching the blouse from Velvet’s hands and carrying it to the light to inspect the damage. Whilst Mrs Sloane was studying it, Velvet felt there was a chance that it might not be as bad as she’d thought, but as soon as the supervisor turned from the window she shook her head.

  ‘It’s beyond any help,’ she said. ‘Completely ruined. You careless girl! What were you thinking of?’

  Velvet burst into tears, knowing that this would mean instant dismissal. It wasn’t just that, though – it was knowing that she’d let Madame down, and destroyed something that she held dear. Why, she’d rather have burned her own arm than spoiled one of Madame’s beautiful garments!

  ‘You were chattering, I suppose,’ said Mrs Sloane. ‘Chattering and giggling like you all do. Oh, I knew that something like this would happen sooner or later.’

  Velvet was crying too hard to even begin to say that she hadn’t been talking. Besides, she knew it was useless to protest, for a girl had been dismissed only the previous week for making a tiny burn mark in a sheet, even though she’d pleaded that it was a rust stain which was already there.

  Mrs Sloane looked at Velvet’s heaving shoulders, then pursed her lips and steeled herself. Velvet was a favourite of hers, but rules were rules and she’d already given the girl one chance. ‘You can stay until the end of the week,’ she said.

  Velvet sniffed back tears and looked at Mrs Sloane bleakly. It was Thursday, so she had two more days earning money before she had to join the massed ranks of London’s unemployed. ‘What if you took payment for the blouse out of my earnings?’ she asked. ‘Couldn’t you do that, Mrs Sloane, please?’

  ‘And how long do you think that would take?’ Mrs Sloane snorted, then lowered her voice. ‘I’m already going against rules letting you stay on an extra two days. Dismissal is supposed to be instant.’

  Velvet said no more, but wept on and off for the rest of the afternoon. Mr Ruffold himself was informed of the unlucky incident and went to see Madame Savoya personally to apologise and to try and make good, in financial terms at least, what had occurred.

  That night Velvet went home anxious and very miserable, imagining Madame’s horror and disappointment at the damage done to her blouse, and spending a sleepless night wondering how on earth she was going to manage without a job. Saturday was to be her last day at Ruffold’s. She would collect her wages that afternoon, pay her rent for the following week and then have just a few coins between her and the dreaded workhouse.

  When the girls made their way into the corridor for their dinner break that Saturday, Velvet sat huddled, worry gnawing at her, unable to eat – unable, even, to respond to Lizzie’s sympathetic suggestions as to what she might do next. How could she earn money? Where could she go? She had no particular experience except at washing and ironing, but she couldn’t possibly take in laundry at home because she had no access to hot water and certainly nowhere to hang lines of drying sheets.

  Sunk in despair, it took her a while to become aware that one of the little girl learners was tapping her on the shoulder. ‘Mrs Sloane wants to see you,’ she said, ‘and you’re to come as quick as you can.’

  ‘Is Mr Ruffold there?’ Velvet asked, for she was fearful that the boss might take some of her wages as partial compensation for the accident.

  The girl shrugged. ‘Dunno, miss. She just told me you must come and see her straight away.’

  Velvet went towards the supervisor’s office and, hearing voices from within, almost fled. To do that would have meant running away from her wages, however, so she took a breath and knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Mrs Sloane called.

  Velvet entered and was both alarmed and comforted by the sight of Madame Savoya, smiling and beautiful in a dress and jacket of lavender wool. Beside her stood George, the young man who had assisted at her evening performance, looking tall, slim and elegant in dark-green livery.

  Velvet gave a low curtsey.

  ‘Now, Velvet, what do you think?’ Mrs Sloane said in her most genteel voice. ‘Madame has come here specially to ask us to keep you on.’

  Velvet gasped and was about to bob another curtsey to Madame when she saw, to her great consternation, that this lady was shaking her head.

  ‘I beg your pardon, but I haven’t come here for that, Mrs Sloane.’

  Mrs Sloane looked confused. ‘Oh, allow me to beg your pardon,’ she blustered. ‘I presumed that your appearance here could only mean one thing, and this seemed to be confirmed when you said you wished to talk to me about Velvet and asked if she could attend us.’

  Velvet kept her eyes on the floor, hardly knowing where to look.

  ‘No, I wished to talk to Velvet for quite a different reason,’ Madame said.

  ‘I’m most terribly sorry about your lovely blouse!’ Velvet blurted out. ‘I loved having your clothes to look after – they’re so beautiful. I wasn’t really being neglectful of my duties. I don’t know how the ruffle iron got caught but –’

  Madame lifted a hand encased in a lilac suede glove. ‘No more need be said about that.’ There was a pause, then she added, ‘I came to offer you a position in my household.’

  ‘A . . . position?’ Velvet stuttered.

  ‘As a laundress?’ Mrs Sloane asked.

  ‘As a . . . well, I’m not sure of the name for what I need,’ Madame said thoughtfully. ‘I understand your mother taught you several skills, Velvet?’

  Velvet bobbed a curtsey. ‘I can read and write well, Madame, and I can embroider and smock, and also draw a little. I can even speak a few words of French.’

  Madame Savoya smiled at this.

  ‘You see, before my mother was a laundress, she worked for a big family as a governess. She taught me everything she knew,’ Velvet finished.

  ‘May God rest her soul!’ put in Mrs Sloane piously.

  ‘She has passed over, I understand,’ Madame said. ‘You are quite alone in the world?’

  ‘I am, Madame.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’ve cared for my clothes so beautifully here, I’m sure you can do the same thing at my home.’

  ‘I would be . . . like a lady’s maid?’ Velvet asked.

  Madame smiled. ‘Partly that, although we already have a housekeeper and a daily maid. You would, perhaps, do a little light sewing and work of that ilk, but mostly you would be my companion and assistant, opening the door to my clients, accompanying me to the shops, laying out my clothes, walking my pet dog, answerin
g the telephone – duties of that nature.’

  Velvet gasped anew at each of these duties – the last especially, for she had only ever seen a telephone once, in Mr Ruffold’s office, and certainly had never answered one.

  ‘What do you think, Velvet?’ asked Madame. She glanced up at George. ‘What else can we tell her, George? I’m not too hard a task-mistress, am I?’

  ‘You are the kindest and very best, Madame,’ George said. He smiled at Velvet and she noticed that his eyes were almost a match for the dark green of his uniform. ‘Won’t you come and join us at Darkling Villa?’

  Velvet, beaming with pleasure and amazement, already felt herself to be half in love with both Madame and George. ‘Oh, yes, please.’

  Chapter Six

  In Which Velvet Begins Living in Her New Home

  Darkling Villa was just off Hanover Crescent in Regent’s Park, an expensive area in north London, and Velvet was delighted to find herself even further away from the place where she’d spent her childhood. Madame had given her the fare for a hackney carriage from Chiswick and she very much enjoyed the ride through the streets, taking with her all her possessions (which did not amount to much more than the few clothes she wasn’t wearing, the old lace petticoat which had once been her mother’s, her washing things and a spare pair of shoes) in a large brown paper bag. The area was very well-to-do and when the driver stopped outside Darkling Villa, a beautiful Regency house with bay windows and columns either side of the door, he’d looked at the house and then back at Velvet in disbelief. ‘Are you sure you’re for this house, miss?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I am, thank you,’ Velvet said, and she paid him and climbed out of the cab, trying not to look amazed and incredulous. When she’d bade goodbye to Lizzie the evening before, she’d not thought for a moment that somewhere as genteel as this would be her new home. She looked up at the house – and up again – thinking that it was probably one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen. Her father had sometimes presided over children’s parties in wealthy homes, but none had been as lovely as this, with its pale-grey shutters, marble columns and elegant bay trees in great wooden tubs outside the door.

  Madame had told her to come to the front door (rather than the back entrance for tradesmen, or the side door which led to her private quarters), and it was George who answered when she knocked. George’s duties, she was to discover, were those of a chief valet or manservant in a house where no gentleman resided. He made sure the house was safely locked up at night, escorted Madame to functions, drove her in her own gig to various engagements and, when necessary, dealt with any gentlemen of the press (Madame’s revelations from the Other Side sometimes made headline news, he told Velvet). He also took notes at Madame’s private sessions and generally provided a charming, reassuring presence for the many wealthy, middle-aged ladies who were Madame’s principal clients.

  ‘Shall I call you Mr George?’ Velvet asked, feeling herself blushing.

  ‘George will do,’ he said, and he took her bag from her and ushered her inside.

  She thanked him with a bobbed curtsey and, hoping she would soon be able to speak to him without going red, straightened up and looked around her. She saw a sweeping staircase coming down to a magnificent hall tiled in black-and-white marble, in its centre a long, polished display table containing a large vase of exotic blooms and greenery. To one side were two curved wooden coat stands empty of any garments.

  ‘Do come through to the kitchen,’ George said, opening a panelled door on to stairs leading down. ‘Madame is sleeping, so you may not see her until later this afternoon. We were at Egyptian Hall last night and the poor lady was overwhelmed with messages – they fair exhausted her.’

  ‘Messages from . . . from dead people?’ Velvet asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  George nodded. ‘Only we don’t call them dead,’ he said. ‘We say they’re in spirit, or on the Other Side.’

  ‘I see,’ Velvet said. She wanted very much to learn and understand. She wanted to prove invaluable to Madame so that she’d never regret taking her on and she wanted to show George that she wasn’t just a simple laundress, a nobody, but a girl who was teachable, capable and clever. And then (she was a romantic, so could not help wishing this), when he’d discovered all that, she wanted him to also discover that she’d wound her way around his heart and he couldn’t live without her.

  ‘This is Mrs Lawson, our housekeeper,’ George said as they reached the kitchen. A wiry, middle-aged woman nodded at Velvet. ‘Mrs Lawson, this is Velvet.’

  ‘Velvet, is it?’ said Mrs Lawson, looking up from the dough she was pounding. ‘Were your sisters Wool and Linen?’

  Velvet smiled, although she had heard the joke – or one very like it – before.

  ‘Mrs Lawson looks after us, cooks our food and keeps the house in order,’ said George.

  ‘All on your own?’ Velvet asked politely. ‘Such a big house!’

  ‘I manage well enough,’ replied Mrs Lawson, still pummelling dough. ‘Sissy, my daughter, comes in as a daily maid and always attends when Madame has one of her evening soirées.’

  ‘Mrs Lawson is a marvellous cook,’ George said. ‘Her puddings are things of wonder.’

  ‘And what about my puddings, Mr George?’ A girl came out of the scullery and stood looking at George, hands on hips. By her challenging tone and impudent manner, her meaning was clear, but George (to give him his due, Velvet thought) did not continue the banter but pretended to take the question at face value.

  ‘Your lemon meringue is excellent, Sissy.’

  The girl laughed.

  ‘Sissy, this is Velvet,’ George said. He held up his hand. ‘And she’s already heard the jokes about Wool and Linen, so I trust you’ll spare us those.’

  ‘I’d spare you anything!’ Sissy said, and she winked at her mother, who shook her head and gave George a look as if to say, ‘what would you do with her?’

  Velvet was not surprised to find a rival at Darkling Villa, for it was obvious to her that a young man as good-looking as George would attract the eye of any girl, young, old, rich or poor. Not all of them would be as forward as Sissy, of course, but this, Velvet thought, could work to the other girl’s disadvantage. Surely she was much too vulgar for anyone as refined and gentlemanly as George?

  Velvet was taken by him on a tour of the rest of the house. There were three servants’ bedrooms at the top, and Velvet was very pleased to have a room of her own and not to have to share with Mrs Lawson. On the next floor down, a suite of rooms were occupied solely by Madame, consisting of a bedroom, dressing room, small sitting room and a proper bathroom with running hot water. ‘Madame is very keen on the latest gadgets,’ George said, and went on to say that plans were being drawn up to have electric lights fitted throughout the house. ‘Light at the flick of a switch,’ he said. ‘Imagine that!’ On the first floor was an elegant private dining and drawing room, and on the ground floor two large rooms which were used almost exclusively for hosting evenings of mediumship.

  These ‘Dark Circles’, as George referred to them, were usually held in the room facing the street. In this spacious front room the only furniture was a piano and a very large round table with twelve matching chairs placed at regular intervals around it. George explained that Madame either presided at this table or, if the number of visitors was too great, the table could be folded down and the room used to accommodate up to thirty people seated in rows down the room.

  ‘Does Madame use a Ouija board?’ Velvet enquired.

  ‘No, she certainly does not!’ George said, and Velvet wondered at first if she’d offended him. ‘Ouija boards have long been discredited by serious mediums. We consider them no more than playthings.’

  Velvet nodded. ‘I did wonder,’ she said. ‘At Christmas we played on one at my friend’s house, but I believe her naughty sister was directing things, and spirits came to the board who weren’t even dead.’ She hesitated. ‘That is, weren’t even on the Othe
r Side.’

  ‘That’s why proper mediums don’t use such objects,’ George said. ‘A Ouija board is all too easy to manipulate.’

  Whilst they were in this front room, George paused by a curious arrangement consisting of a thick damask curtain hung across an alcove with a sumptuously cushioned easy chair inside. ‘That’s Madame’s cabinet,’ George said. Upon Velvet looking puzzled, he added, ‘But I forgot that you haven’t attended a closed séance.’

  ‘I’ve been to Prince’s Hall,’ Velvet said.

  ‘Those sessions are rather different. This . . .’ he indicated the curtain arrangement ‘. . . is Madame’s cabinet and, if she and her guests aren’t seated around the table, she’ll come in here in order to commune with the spirits.’

  ‘Commune with the spirits,’ Velvet repeated, and looked at George wonderingly. He was speaking of strange and remarkable things as if they were everyday happenings. ‘Really? How does that happen?’

  ‘When everyone is assembled, Madame goes into the cabinet, enters a trance state and summons the spirits,’ George said. ‘When the curtain is opened, the spirits speak to the audience through Madame. Sometimes objects belonging to the person in spirit are apported.’