by Sandra Byrd
Louisa cleared the table, and I was about to return to the salon when a note arrived. Bidwell brought it to me.
“Didn’t come by the post, Miss Young. Some young urchin delivers it an’ then runs away.”
“Thank you.” I stood by the front window for the light. I slit open the envelope and instead of a letter falling out, a portion of the Scripture—an entire page of the Bible—was folded up inside. I took it out. Most of the words had been darkened by pencil, leaving only a few words remaining. It was from Saint Matthew, chapter eight: “Let the dead bury their dead.”
Saint Matthew again.
“Has the post arrived, then?” Mrs. W came into the room.
“No, no. Not yet,” I said, holding the page close to me.
“Someone is reading my magazines before they are delivered,” she fussed. “They are bent and have been mishandled and always arrive a day or two late.” She sighed. “I’ll ensure your mourning dress is pressed. And mine, too, if you’d like me to accompany you.”
Should I attend, still? Someone had sent this dire warning in a most inappropriate manner. Why? To warn me away, of course. Because perhaps I should learn something there.
“I’ll attend, of course, out of respect for Papa, but you needn’t come,” I said. “Constable Collingsworth said if I attended he would see me home.”
“A fine idea.” She beamed. “I’ll see to pressing, then.”
I folded the paper and took it to my room with me; then I secured it deep inside Alice’s hole, the upside-down world where everything that made no sense belonged.
• • •
I was glad to be alone as we pulled up to the church, as I was not then required to cover my open shock. There, outside the church, stood four black horses, draped in velvet, with a cart behind them. There were plenty of police guarding the entrance. I nodded at one or two I recognized; they did not acknowledge me. Two mourning mutes stood behind the hearse. Unusually, they did not even smell of gin.
Once inside, I found the room to be filled, mainly with officers in uniform. This was in direct contrast to the desolate funeral for my father, an inspector. His had been so sparsely attended that the songs of the chorister, a lad whose voice had not yet broken, had bounced mournfully off the cold stone walls, echoing throughout the empty room.
They must not suspect him as they had Papa. Or Inspector Collingsworth had commanded they attend, or both.
The widow sat in the front row, clutching a baby who seemed to consider the crowd with a combination of fright and curiosity. Mrs. Roberts was surrounded by two older women—perhaps her mother and her mother-in-law?—and several officers. Several rows in front of me sat Inspector Collingsworth, and his son, Francis. Francis looked around once or twice, and when he spied me, he smiled gently. I knew he would see to me after the proceedings.
The vicar’s service was punctuated only by the occasional fitting wail of Roberts’s young child. Afterward, the mourners gathered to pay their respects to the widow before filing out after the coffin.
I recognized one officer, someone who had worked many years with Papa. I made my way to him.
“Miss Young.” Guardedness glazed his eyes, but they also filled with friendliness and warmth. He smiled kindly, but backed away.
“I’m delighted to see you, though the occasion is sad,” I said, moving toward him again. “I missed seeing you at Papa’s funeral . . . I’d hoped to ask you about that, and about Papa.”
“Good day, Miss Young.” He abruptly severed our conversation, though I saw regret cross his face first.
As I moved on, I realized: his voice! It was the voice of the man who had whispered warnings through the door to me. Was he truly trying to help me or . . . was he dark, too? He turned back and recognized my sudden understanding—I could see it in his eyes—nodded briefly, and then walked away from me. I turned toward another man, a sergeant my father had trained and who had once visited our home. He didn’t offer a look to me before making his way toward the door.
I felt a hand on my elbow. I turned to the warm face of Constable Collingsworth.
“They won’t talk with you, Miss Young. They’ve been instructed not to and they’ll obey to a man. My father’s told you he handled it, and he’s told them, too. It’s best. I admire your loyalty to your father—loyalty is the most important value a person can carry—but in this case, it’s misplaced and risky.”
I nodded, which seemed to set him at ease. I felt like crying, and could, here and now, without note because it would be assumed that I was mourning the deceased. In truth, my tears were for my papa and myself and the confusion that his life should have ended so ignominiously. Francis touched me gently. “The line is long and you are tired. Let me return you home.”
I nodded, thankful for his kindness.
• • •
The next day, I repented of not having stayed to offer my condolences. Roberts had been so kind to me, so loyal to Papa. I would visit his widow and let her know how grieved I was. Even if her house was being watched, it would be natural for me to call. Perhaps she would have some news—or papers—to share?
I arrived in early afternoon. “I hope I am not too early to call,” I said. “I sorrowed of leaving yesterday before sharing my condolences. I’m very sorry, and thankful that at the end of my father’s life he was led by a man such as your husband was.”
She let me into the house, reluctantly. “They just left. Good it was that I gave you that letter earlier.”
“Who is ‘they’? The ‘they’ that searched your house?” I tried to keep the alarm from my voice.
She looked at me, scared. “Isn’t that typical? To look for official materials and such? They mentioned your father by name when they were here.”
Typical for your family and mine, maybe, but not for most officers. “They searched our house, too,” I replied.
She exhaled.
I hoped I could help her in some way. “I am a seamstress and am looking for women to do piecework. I couldn’t help but notice that your linen pocket was so very nicely done. Would you be interested in piecework?”
She smiled weakly for a moment. “Thank you for the compliment, miss, but given all the trouble since your father died, I would rather not.”
“Can I help in some other way?”
She stood up. “They made it clear that my police widow pension was going to be given me at their . . . direction?”
“Discretion?” I offered.
“Yes. ‘Make no trouble’ is what the word meant, however you say it. I understood that much, miss. I have a young boy to care for and no man. That pension will be welcome and I can’t have it interfered with by association with trouble.”
“I understand, Mrs. Roberts,” I said. Trouble, meaning me, associated with Papa, still.
“I’m glad you do, Miss Young.” She headed toward the door. “This will be good-bye, then.”
I nodded and bid her good day. She did not answer, and I could not blame her. I would not call upon her again. Now that both officers were dead and Roberts had, I assumed, provided the dummy list to Collingsworth, I suspected that the pressure on me would ease off. Nonetheless, it was likely that for a time Mrs. Roberts and I would both be watched.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EARLY JUNE, 1883
The next morning, I received an invitation to the Collingsworths’ home. I had been expecting Mrs. Collingsworth to extend an invitation much earlier, since her husband had mentioned it, but the timing, now Roberts was dead, was suspect to me.
I replied affirmatively and then sent a note to Davidson to let him know that I would visit Winton Park immediately, having all but the final beading done on Lady Tolfee’s Vernissage gown. I meant to look round the “castle” and see if I could find anything that Papa might have hidden when he was there just before his death; he had referenced it in his final letter, after all, obliquely. Had Inspector Collingsworth accompanied Papa every time he’d visited? I would ask.
&n
bsp; I sewed in the morning while Mother Martha read to us from my mother’s rare and dear book. I shed a tear or two, though I tried to hide them, when she reached the part in Little Women quoting the girls’ mother.
“The love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy,” she read, and I dabbed my eyes. I wanted to be my own woman. And yet, I wanted to copy the woman I loved and admired, too.
“Are you feeling well, miss? I feel sad sometimes when I thinks about me mum, too, though I doubt she often thinks of me,” Ruby said, and then came and patted me on the shoulder. “Haven’t seen her since I stopped bringing money.” I reached over and hugged her, for her and for me.
Perhaps we could all use an outing. “Would you girls like to accompany me to the shops?” I asked. “I will stop by and select some supplies for our sewing, as well as a gift for Mrs. Collingsworth.”
“Would you like me to make a pair of gloves for Lady Lockwood?” Mother Martha offered. “As a gift for her.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. W said.
“That is most generous!” I contradicted her. It was for me to decide. I did not even know if I would see Lady Lockwood whilst I was in Hampshire, but perhaps. “You have not measured her hands, though.”
Mother Martha smiled. “I saw her the day she took tea in your parlor. I can make the gloves exactly.”
I grinned. I could measure most by size, too, having sewn for many and having a natural dressmaker’s eye. But gloves were a much more difficult project to judge. I had not, I knew, been sewing as long as Mother Martha must have been.
Mrs. W declined to accompany us; another headache. Mother Martha preferred to read. The girls and I chose a parasol and took to the shops along Regent Street; the baby birds cheeped and peeped us along the way. First we visited a haberdashery shop, where I bought buttons and beads and a beautiful pincushion that swung from a gold chain for Mrs. Collingsworth. Then it was off to the milliner, who was a friend.
“Girls, please meet my friend Miss Sarah Gordon. She runs the shop with her mother.”
The girls exclaimed over the hats, barely daring to touch them. Sarah let them wander round her shop and we saw, in the back, a wiggery. I let Ruby peek into it.
“Can I try one on, then?” she asked, and Sarah nodded her agreement.
First Ruby tried on a ginger wig with elaborate loops that made her look sunny and social and then she tried on a long dark-brown wig that made her look sophisticated.
“Come along, Charlotte,” she encouraged. I closed my eyes and prayed that the wigs would not be damaged; I could not afford to replace them. But the girls had so little opportunity for fun. Charlotte pulled on a gray wig. Ruby used her hands to make a few loops and curls, even pulling a pin out of her own wig to hold it up, and pronounced Charlotte “Old!” Charlotte bent over like an elderly lady, mincing around the store.
We all broke into giggles, but I was impressed beyond measure with Ruby’s quick hand in fixing the hair and I thought, by her look, that Sarah was, too. I placed an order for Lady Tolfee’s hats; Sarah already had her head size from earlier orders. As we left, she handed a new hat to me.
“I shouldn’t!” I said. And yet, I thought to my visits just ahead. It was a beautiful hat, sky blue with clouds of cream roses and a storm of purple plumed feathers to match.
“You can sew something for me at the end of the Season.” Sarah urged it on me. “Go on, take it.”
“Take it!” Ruby urged. I nodded, delighted; Sarah wrapped it in a paper, and then we were off.
“Home now?” Ruby seemed disappointed.
“Not yet,” I said. “We’re off to take tea.” The gift of gloves for Lady Lockwood had given me an idea.
“Oooh,” Ruby responded, “I’ve never been to take tea.”
We arrived at a Turkish shop I knew; I enjoyed bringing the girls along and was delighted I could combine two purposes into one. I’d forgotten the simple pleasure of visiting with others at a coffee or tea house, which I did often before and after the Season. I should endeavor to meet with my friends, once more, and enjoy myself, come autumn. “First, I’m going to buy some ground Turkish coffee,” I said. “Then I shall order tea and tea cakes for us. Why don’t you two find a table for us to sit at?”
Charlotte spoke up, quite soberly. “I’d prefer to try Turkish coffee if I may, Miss Young.”
I laughed aloud. Charlotte rarely requested anything. “You may indeed, my brave girl.” I had two coffee drinkers in my life now. My heart skipped a beat.
Was he truly in my life?
I purchased the finest Turkish coffee beans in stock and had them placed in a costly hammered copper container. We sat on tufted chairs beneath French chandeliers that were blazing elegantly, even at midday, while suspended from the high ceilings. The brick walls were lined with brass containers and curiosities, glass apothecary containers holding sweets that could be purchased. The serving girl soon brought our treats.
“Why didn’t Mrs. W want to come, miss? She seems not to be very happy, if you ask me, and if you don’t mind my saying,” Ruby said as she picked her teacup up by the handle and immediately slurped it all down. I stopped her from pouring the milk pitcher’s contents into her cup entirely.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“How did she come to live with you? Did you find her, like us, at the Mission?” Charlotte asked. I smiled. Such an innocent.
“No, she was a friend of my mother. I kept her with me after Mamma died. She’s a kind of a chaperone, I suppose. She’s my godmother.”
“Ooh, a godmother. The pantomimes always have fairy godmothers, like Cinderella, right, miss?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“Only I thought fairy godmothers smiled more,” Ruby pointed out.
“Most do,” I agreed. “But she’s not a fairy. Her duties, when I was a child, were to help direct me closer to God and His will. Perhaps we should stop and buy her some fairy dust to sprinkle over her just to lighten her mood now I can make my own decisions!”
“I wish I had a fairy godmother,” Ruby said. I smiled but said nothing. The table jiggled, and I thought perhaps Charlotte had lightly kicked her from under the table. Charlotte was coming into her own.
“You are a kind of fairy godmother,” I said as we finished our tea.
They looked at me, heads cocked in question.
“To the pigeons, of course,” I said, to which they laughed in innocence and delight, filling my heart with affection.
On the way home I realized, with a start, that Mrs. W would not be able to accompany me to Winton. I could not leave Mother Martha and the girls at home alone with no one in charge; certainly not Louisa and Bidwell. What if someone broke in again, a possibility I did not even want to raise with Mrs. W? What if someone came to call? Mrs. W would have to remain, which meant I would be alone in that vast, desolate house . . . but with Lockwood just over the hill.
• • •
Constable Collingsworth came to escort me to his home. I had put on a new dress and my purple plumed hat, along with a pair of ivory gloves. Mrs. W conversed with him in the parlor until I came down to greet him. The floor above me went quiet. I suspected the girls were eavesdropping. I couldn’t blame them. I would have been, too.
“Constable Collingsworth.” I held out my hand.
His eyes reflected his admiration as he took it in his own. “Miss Young. You look lovely.”
I looked him in the eye and smiled, and he smiled back. We had crossed some boundary, the one from childhood friends to adults, whatever that may hold, and there would be no return.
Although the distance between our homes was considerable, we walked, and I was glad of that. Collingsworth held his elbow out, and I slipped my hand into it, and we walked companionably.
“How does your sewing proceed?” he asked.
“At the moment, wonderfully,” I said. “I’m putting
the finishing touches to a dress for Lady Tolfee. She’s to open the Royal Academy of Arts Summer Exhibition following the Vernissage,” I said.
He looked bewildered. “I’ve never been to that museum, or heard of that kind of thing.”
“It’s a part of the Season, parties and balls and events and such. I’ve chosen a dress that is to do with Impressionism.”
He did not answer. I thought maybe he was unfamiliar with Impressionism but did not want to say.
“It’s also about a gardening book,” I quickly added, hoping to set him at ease. “One that showcases English flowers, in particular.”
He relaxed. “Oh, Mother is always pottering about her veg patch. You should mention that book to her. Now it’s June, she’s out planting more in the back. Father has told her that soon, when we move into the new house on Berry Street, we shall have an even larger house and a larger garden for her to plant in. She’s quite thrilled.” He smiled at me. “Though I expect I shall not be living with them by then, so I don’t know why they would need a larger home.”
“You plan to move?” I asked. We passed one of the brass Salvation Army bands, and I slowed. “Do you mind if we listen for a moment? Have we time?”
He nodded. “Certainly. To answer your question, yes, I hope to have moved into my own home by next year. Father has indicated that I am likely to be promoted to sergeant.” He smiled once more.
“Congratulations!” The band played a rousing tune and Collingsworth seemed to enjoy himself. He did not have his uniform on today, and the pink of his cheeks and the close-shaved blond mutton chops made him look younger than when he was dressed for the force.
We began to move toward his house again. “Wasn’t your father a sergeant when he married your mother?” he asked.
I took a slow breath. I thought I now saw where this was headed. “Yes, yes, he was,” I replied.
“They seemed very happy, in spite of . . . how it all ended for your father.” He stopped, seemingly having realized that he had introduced a difficult topic into a sunny day. “Perhaps her death . . . well, you know how upsetting that can be to some people. Causes them to lose their bearings and head in another direction.”
