“She talked like a toff,” one of them said. “And she made her bed real neat.”
Assuming that before Starling had taken employment at the Star Inn she had lived close by, he visited the nearest of the city foundling homes. Few people moved too far out of their area. When he discovered where Starling had spent her younger days, he would find a clue, he hoped, as to where she would hide.
At the third home he tried, the heavy-browed, arthritic nun in charge, Mother Sarah, told him Smith was a common name and, in fact, any of the orphans with no known parentage were deemed Smiths. And yes, they’d had a Starling.
“A good girl, in the main. Good with the younger ones. I recommended her as a nursery maid some months ago, when she left.”
A sticklike nun, Sister Berenice, introduced as a teacher, said in rather an apologetic voice, “She could have been a teacher, but the orphanage has a reputation for training servants.”
Mother Sarah’s mouth thinned, and she leaned heavily on her walking stick. “That’s how we get our sponsorship. If we let these girls, whose parents could have come from the gutter, rise above themselves, we would be overreaching our grasp.”
Sister Berenice nodded. Her mild eyes gleamed. “The class system makes servants of us all. Starling was an unusual lass, perhaps what you might call a blue stocking. She soaked up information. Unfortunately, she thought people could rise above themselves if they chose. Perhaps you found the same at your emporium?”
Alasdair had represented himself as Miss Smith’s former employer who had mistakenly dismissed her. “Not at all. I’m anxious to find her so that I can promote her,” he said, staring at the sparse furnishings in the place, unpadded bench seats, bare wooden floors, and uncurtained windows; it was a cold area containing no creature comforts. He would have been surprised to see a fireplace other than in Mother Sarah’s rooms. “I found she was everything I needed.” True, if not too true. “Could you let me know if she contacts you?” He left a sizeable donation.
Failing a trail to follow there, he drove to the Star Inn, a seedy, whitewashed building smelling of damp and hops two streets away from his emporium. The slack-faced owner pushed his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and patted his overstretched belly with his fingers when he heard the name Starling Smith. “I took over here a couple of weeks ago. Hey, you,” he called to one of the whores propping an elbow on the bar. “Do you know a female named Starling?”
“That would be the girl what done the laundry,” said a towheaded creature with a missing front tooth. Alasdair had looked over this one when he’d wanted to hire his fake wife.
“Pretty little thing,” said the other, whom he also recognized by the sight of her extensive cleavage. She scratched her armpit, and the jelly of her bosom wobbled. “She only stayed a few weeks, but she and Meg was real thick.”
“Where could I find Meg?”
“Dunno.” The female smirked. “She walked out just like that yesterday.”
Alasdair didn’t prolong the conversation. The smell in the inn curled his nose. He didn’t want to imagine Starling in the low, dirty dive. His investigations had led nowhere. Perhaps he would have to face up to the fact that unless she wanted to be found, she wouldn’t be. He fingered the gold wedding ring he kept in his pocket, the ring she had left in his bedroom, the ring he’d bought for her. Until he had offered the circlet to her again in a proposal of marriage, he would continue his search.
His servants, initially censorious because they assumed Starling had left because of his “carrying on” with Lavender, relented. Although he didn’t ask, he discovered how well Starling had run his house and how often she smoothed over the problems Lavender caused. He didn’t ask because he didn’t want to know how blinded he had been by Lavender’s face, how stupid he had been to assume that beauty had any relationship to worth, and how deaf he had been to Starling’s needs.
In the meantime, he employed a man to search Adelaide for Starling Smith, who had disappeared without a trace. Thus far, two leads that caused great excitement among the servants proved to be false.
During the following two months, he saw the bottom of a bottle too often, and he followed women in the streets, thinking he had seen the woman he couldn’t forget. After more than one gazing at him and reacting, not with the interested smile he was accustomed to but with alarm, he assessed himself. He had become a dead bore.
And so he stopped finding his life in a bottle. A woman as spotless as Starling wouldn’t marry a sot and didn’t deserve one. She deserved a husband who put an effort into his business and who scrupulously earned his money, as she had earned hers. When he found her, he would give her the best of himself, not the worst.
After facing up to his faults, he corresponded with Mary, telling her the full truth about Starling, that she had wanted him to reveal their deception and had once begun, only to be stopped by him. He told Mary he stopped Starling because he didn’t want her to leave and he admitted his despair after he’d lost her.
His sister not only forgave him but also expressed her sympathy. She and Paul planned to make their next visit in August, but before they arrived, he wanted to see his Kapunda emporium. The new manager there had suggested a few changes about which Alasdair didn’t quite approve.
In July, he left to attend to his newest acquisition.
* * * *
The wearisome and dusty train journey to the mining town took a day. Alasdair had seen no need to warn anyone of his arrival and consequently took the offer of a trap ride to the Clare Castle, a smallish hotel built from the locally gathered stone. He accepted a back room with a plank ceiling, furnished with a bed, a washstand, and two hooks. The windows measured a hand span but overlooked miles of rolling green hills on one side and red-dust diggings on the other. The mining boom was evident from the smokestacks and the dust-laden air.
After a hot bath and a good meal in the noisy taproom, he dropped onto his bed and slept like a drover’s dog until morning. The day dawned slowly with white clouds floating in the early sky. Dressed in dark trousers and a high-crowned hat, he strode down the rutted, pit-holed street, nodding to the early morning shoppers. He would have been less conspicuous in thick trousers and a hardwearing shirt.
His emporium dominated the main street, taking up two titles. Although also built from the local stone, large front windows had been fitted, and his surname had been painted on a plaque along the top. A quick stroll through the various areas to the office at the back found him the shop’s manager.
John Brand, a man in his early thirties with lank, fair hair and a pleasant face, rose to his feet. He bowed, but Alasdair offered his hand as he reintroduced himself to the slow-speaking man.
“You’ll want to see the accounts,” Brand said, dragging books from the shelves.
“I want to see how much money we’re losing.” Alasdair gazed out of the window, watching men unloading terracotta pots from a cart. One dray, pulled by four horses, held rough wooden tables and chairs, shelves, planks, and boxes marked as fragile.
“As to that, none. We’re in profit.”
Alasdair quickly perused the pages. “Ah, but you told me we’re not making money in the women’s department. I want to find out why.”
Brand stared at his feet, his cheeks pinking painfully. His shoes shone; his trousers, although certainly not made of a superfine weave, were neat; and he wore a patterned green and gold waistcoat. His dark cravat was neatly tied. He looked somewhat smarter than when Alasdair had hired him. Then, he had dressed like a tradesman. Now he dressed for his position as a shop manager. “We’re trying to sell quality gowns for high prices.” He raised his gaze.
“You think we should sell quality for low prices?”
“We sell ready-mades. We can have the gowns altered to fit, but in my opinion,” Brand cleared his throat, “those who can afford quality don’t buy ready-made. The cheaper gowns will do for our customers who can’t afford more than one garment per year,
if that.”
“At one garment per year, we still make a profit.”
“We have stocked more of the better quality.”
Alasdair examined Brand’s face. “I don’t object to holding back there for a while if you think it best.”
Brand took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “And the men. We only stock working clothes. Perhaps we could offer better quality to the men instead, sir.”
Again, Alasdair noted Brand’s outfit. “Where do you buy your clothes?”
“I had to buy everything in Adelaide. Here, we have the tailor shops for wealthy gentlemen and Seymour’s for the workers.”
“I can agree to expanding our options for the men, but I don’t agree we should give up presenting better quality gowns to the women. In my other stores, we sell as many of the higher priced garments as we do the lower. Combining the two encourages those who have a few extra pennies to aim higher than they might otherwise.”
Brand nodded but didn’t look convinced. Alasdair leaned back in the chair, contemplating. His manager had a point he hadn’t fully explained and Alasdair needed to see for himself whatever Brand saw. “Perhaps I’ll take a walk around the town to get the feel of the place.” He pulled on his gloves, tilted his hat at a businesslike angle, and nodded at Brand, who looked relieved.
He walked the one main street to the end, noting the noisy vegetable market with the vendors calling out their prices, the butchers’ shop with bloody carcasses swinging from hooks, and a baker selling his warm yeasty loaves as fast as he could pack them into his customers’ baskets. Alasdair smelled the wax at the chandler and the leather at the cobbler’s shop. The variety of smells and goods was as large as the new population, and the competition was fierce.
The street reeked of cooking food and raw sweat and had an exciting atmosphere for a merchandiser. He noted a Lutheran church, a Bible Christian church, and flower stalls. If he hadn’t already known, he would have seen by the new constructions that the population was in the process of expanding. For a demographic like this, he had stocked his emporium the same way as his Ballarat business, with tools, homewares, and basic working clothes. He didn’t want to stop selling quality garments for women. In a hard-working community like this, women needed frills.
He crossed the road, deciding to walk back on the sunny side. Past his emporium, almost at the other end of the street, he spotted a board sign. Quality Ladies’ Wear. Competition for his ladies’ department, perhaps? He gave a satisfied smile. Unlikely. No town could have a finer ladies’ department than he.
As he approached the shop, in the large window he saw a headless dummy dressed in a plain white gown, severely and elegantly cut, draped with lace across one shoulder. At the side stood a rack of tiny hats, decorated extravagantly with flowers, ribbons, or lace. One had a bird nestled in a bunch of silk leaves. He stopped and peered through the glass-paneled door.
Along one wall of the shop lolled an orderly selection of fabric rolls, arranged like the colors of the rainbow. A cutting counter with chained scissors ranged in front. Near the opposite wall stood three long racks of ready-made gowns. Behind were drawers, probably containing ladies’ intimate apparel. A row of green velvet curtains hung along the back wall. By a pine table in front, three young females plied needles. Each wore a dark blue gown with lace frills at the shoulders and, around the waist, token aprons.
Not a regular visitor to ladies’ dress shops, Alasdair entered, startling the doorbell and trying to look like a customer. Muffled conversations and giggles came from behind the curtains. No doubt a customer was trying on clothes. Two carefully dressed women hovered over the rack of gowns. “She said warm colors for me,” said one, “and cool colors for you.”
Alasdair glanced at the shoppers. Until Starling had entered his life, he’d thought most women bought gowns as fashion or practicality dictated, not purely by choosing a particular range of colors, as Lavender did. He removed his hat, tapping the brim against his leg.
A curtain at the back swished aside. A woman with fading hennaed hair smiled at him. She also wore the dark blue uniform and lace apron. “A gentleman. ’Ow nice. ’Ow can I help you, sir?”
“Perhaps...” With no woman in his life, he couldn’t think of a thing to buy. “A gift for a lady.”
She assessed him, sharp green eyes scanning from his head to his toes. A dimple appeared in her cheek. “Over here.” She took him to the drawers behind the racks. “Something lacy or something racy?” she said with a naughty wink.
“You would be the owner?”
“Miss Smith is the owner. I’m her sister, Meg.” She fluttered her lashes.
“Alasdair Seymour. I own the emporium in the middle of town. And I see I have some competition.”
He’d not thought of himself as unimportant, but he’d never thought of his name as a conversation ender. Meg Smith’s mouth made a perfect O, which she held for a full half minute. “I don’t know what to say. It’s good to meetcha...meet you. But for your training, we wouldn’t have all this.” She swung her hand, indicating the shop.
He smiled politely. “My training?”
“Starling, my sister, trained in your fabric department.”
Alasdair dropped his hat and possibly his jaw.
“We’ve had great success because of that.” She stooped and picked up his hat. “Ladies come from Eudunda, Tanunda, and Angaston just to buy from us. Over there are three more of our sisters, Robin, Dove, and Lizzy.” The sewing girls, one fair and slightly plump, the next tall and angular, and the last long-faced, smiled at him.
“I thought Starling was an orphan. No, that’s wrong. There are eighteen of you.”
“More’n thirty, but eighteen old enough to work. Eleven of those work here, five in the front, and six more out the back. I had no idea you knew that about ’er. I thought she was simply one of your shopgirls.”
“Oh, we were great friends, as I’m sure she would tell you...if she were here,” he said, almost holding his breath.
“She’s been keeping secrets.” Meg grinned. She turned to the curtain and called, “Starling.”
Alasdair froze. The conversation in the back area ceased.
“Yes,” trilled a happy, pleasant tone, a familiar voice that made his heart leap in his chest. “I won’t be much longer. We’re just making sure the hat’s just right.” With that, a fluttering white hand pulled the curtain aside.
Apparently not the owner of the hand, out stepped a matron of forty or so, wearing a flattering blue gown, the bodice seams picked out with pale green piping. She adjusted a green pillbox hat on her mousy, neatly styled hair. Clearly of the middle class, the woman looked very smart.
“Presenting...” Starling appeared, loose curls floating around her face, with the majority caught back, and her soft eyelashes feathering her cheeks. She wore the same as the other workers, dark blue with a white lace apron. Her gaze met Alasdair’s. A look of stark horror paled her face. She glanced away and finished with “...the transformation of the century,” in a hollow voice.
The customer began to gush her thanks. Alasdair didn’t hear a word. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to snatch Starling into his arms and ride away with her. Instead, he stood like a fish on a fence, gaping, waiting to fall on his face.
She gave him time to gather his senses; she totally ignored him.
“When she’s finished with the customer, she’ll speak to you,” Meg said, sounding puzzled. “We can get on with choosing your gift while we wait.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll let the lady choose her own gift. In the meantime...” He moved over to the rolls of fabrics and inspected them. The range was extensive and consisted of moderately priced, medium-quality materials. Silks, cottons, muslins, nets, and laces but nothing a middle-class family couldn’t afford. The ribbon box was the same. The hat shapes were fashionable rather than outrageous. The young seamstresses whispered to each other while they worked on the re
ady-made gowns. He noticed that the young, plump seamstress had red, chapped hands with ragged fingernails.
Finally, Starling’s customer left and Meg sold a gown to one of the other ladies after each had consulted with Starling as to the fit and the color. The two customers left, satisfied. Another woman entered the shop. As Starling, seeming entirely unaware of Alasdair, moved past him to greet her, he murmured, “Perhaps you ought to speak to me before my annoyance over you stealing my ideas forces me to take you to court.”
Starling rounded on him, face aghast. “Your ideas? Never. This shop is mine and every merchandising idea I am using is my own.”
“How about the fabrics kept in their color groups rather than their fabric groups. It’s the same way in my city store, I recall.”
The new customer looked interested, so Starling included her in the conversation. “It was my idea. I did it for him.”
Alasdair took her arm. “I think we should take a walk and discuss this. Don’t you?”
Her mouth mutinied. Then her gaze lowered and she sighed and nodded. She went behind the curtains and came out wearing a pelisse of pale blue with a burgundy hat and gloves. He stared, wondering how he had overlooked her quiet beauty. Perhaps in noticing her more important assets—her strength of character and her sweetness—he hadn’t needed more.
With an ache of pure pleasure, he took her elbow and moved her into the street. “You make that color elegant. I always thought it was rather girlish.”
“Only on the wrong person,” she said, tilting her head away from him. The pink bloom on her cheeks was adorable. She began to walk in the direction of his emporium.
“These days Lavender wears pale yellows or peach colors,” he said as he caught up. He joined his fingers together and rounded them over an imaginary stomach.
She lifted her chin and glanced at him. “She’s with child?”
“In an interesting condition. Her baby is due in six months or so.”
“I wish you would go away. We really have nothing to say to each other.”
Starling Page 23
