by Mary Hooper
‘Hmm,’ said George Unwin thoughtfully. ‘Might work. But where do we get our little impersonator from? We want someone the same age, a girl who is absolutely reliable.’
Sylvester Unwin grinned. ‘My dear cousin, you need look no further than your own home.’
George Unwin gaped at him. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘I do indeed. But we’ll need as much information from Lily as possible: descriptions, dates, details of Ma and Pa – all that stuff.’
‘On its way!’ said George Unwin. As usual, his cousin had come up with the solution, although Charlotte would have to be bribed with something else, of course.
‘So what else has been happening?’ Sylvester Unwin wanted to know.
‘I’ve got you a feathered tricorne!’
‘Why ever should I need one of those?’
‘As if you didn’t know! As if you hadn’t been told you’d be Lord Mayor of London within five years!’
‘Lord Mayor of London! I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Sylvester Unwin roguishly. ‘Whatever have I done to be made mayor?’
‘A leader in business, but with a caring and compassionate side,’ said George Unwin, ‘that’s how you present yourself, isn’t it?’ He winked. ‘And especially caring to fallen women, eh?’
The other ignored this. ‘Anyway, I know whose feathered tricorne you’ve pinched. I was at old Welland-Scropes’s funeral and saw it going past on the bier.’
‘Were you there? I didn’t see you.’
‘I was late – crept into the church and sat in the back pew. Didn’t know the man personally, of course, but . . .’
‘But it’s the sort of funeral one wants to be seen at, eh?’
‘Quite,’ said Sylvester Unwin. ‘And, yes, keep me the tricorne. Just in case.’
‘Are you Mrs Macready?’ asked the woman. She was thin and was clutching at her stomach as if it was paining her.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘You don’t know me, but I assure you that I mean no harm to you or to anyone else, madam.’
Mrs Macready relaxed slightly. She liked being called madam. ‘Very well. Yes, I am she.’
‘And did you keep a lodging house up in Seven Dials until recently?’
‘I did. A very respectable and law-abiding establishment.’ She sighed. ‘They’ve pulled it down now.’
‘Indeed. That’s what I was told. Two young girls – sisters – had a room there.’
Mrs Macready nodded. ‘I know who you mean: Grace and Lily. Lovely girls, they were. One was a little bit simple, but her sister used to look out for her. Auburn curls, solemn face . . . a reg’lar beauty, she was.’
‘It’s that very girl who I’m seeking. Would you have any idea where she might be found?’
Mrs Macready shook her head. ‘None at all, dear.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The two of them sold watercresses, you know. Have you tried looking for them at Farringdon Market of a morning?’
‘I have.’ The woman nodded. ‘But no one’s seen them for months.’ A look of intense disappointment passed across her face. ‘You were my last hope. Is there any chance that you might see her again, do you think?’
‘Well, there’s always a chance, I suppose,’ said Mrs Macready in a voice which suggested the contrary.
‘If you ever do, please would you tell her that Mrs Smith wants to see her urgently.’
‘Mrs Smith?’ said Mrs Macready, raising one eyebrow.
‘That’s who she knew me as. I live at Tamarind Cottage in Sydney Street with my daughter. Can you remember that?’
‘’Course I can.’ Mrs Macready hesitated, then said, ‘But you look all in, dearie. Do you want to come and rest for a while?’
Mrs Smith shook her head. ‘I’ll be all right. But I’d be obliged if you could write down the address I’ve told you, just in case.’
‘Tamarind Cottage in Sydney Street. I’ll get my son to make a note of it as soon as I go in,’ said Mrs Macready, and she watched as the other woman walked slowly, nearly bent double, back down the street.
x
Chapter Eighteen
When the contingent of funeral workers from the Unwin Undertaking Establishment arrived at Waterloo Necropolis Station in the early morning, the train and its carriages were rimed with frost and its windows patterned with ice crystals, making it look ethereal and other-worldly; a ghost train, shining dully in the drear gas-lit station. Grace, going into the undertakers’ carriage and positioning herself at a window, fancied how it might look as it passed through the countryside, snaking through the icy landscape, white and glittering with frost, cold as Death itself.
Reaching the suburbs of London and nearing a level crossing, it gave a long, low whistle – an especially mournful tone. Looking out of the window, Grace noticed that several farm labourers who’d been working in the fields had downed tools, doffed caps and were standing with lowered heads as it passed them. As the train slowed at the crossing there was a moment of almost silence, when the anguished sobbing of someone in third class could be heard, then the train went across, scalding steam hissing and bubbling and the wheels clattering noisily on the rails as it picked up speed once more.
Approaching Brookwood, a final deep cloud of steam appeared, and then, out of the mist, came tall evergreen trees, followed by a neat brick station. This was as plain and ordinary as any country halt, but had the distinction of bearing a line of funeral workers in black frock coats and top hats upon it, bowing from the waist as the train drew in. As it stopped with a squeal of brakes, the undertakers’ workers put away their dice, cards and flasks of ‘something warming’, and jumped down from the carriage in order to get to their positions for the various ceremonials. Grace alighted also, adjusted her gown and put her veiling in place. The funeral she had to attend was likely to be particularly gruelling, for it was the burial of a young woman killed in a traffic accident the night before her wedding. She was to be buried in her wedding dress and veil, and her bride-cake was to be consumed in the refreshment room after the committal.
Waiting on the platform for Mr Unwin to give his final instructions, Grace took in the sights and sounds of Brookwood. When she’d been there before she’d been bowed down by grief, bewildered by what had happened to her, and had looked but hardly seen. Now she viewed clearly and sympathetically the dismal sight of a host of newly bereaved people, their expressions fraught, moving about the platform silently and awkwardly, like strange black insects.
She shivered. It was a freezing day, and though she was wearing a new pair of thick woollen stockings under her black skirts and petticoats, she was very much feeling the cold. When she’d bought them she’d also purchased a pair for Lily which she intended to take to her as soon as she possibly could. She hadn’t seen her sister for three weeks now and had a lot to tell her, starting with the night she’d seen the handsome Prince Albert in his carriage.
As the first-class coffins were silently removed from the van, Mr Unwin signalled to Grace to go into position before the hearse. The night before, the dead girl’s family had paid an extra guinea for Grace to keep a silent vigil by the open coffin at her home, while those women of the family whose sensibilities did not allow them to journey to Brookwood came to pay their last respects. Grace, therefore, had knelt by the coffin all night and was not only very cold and hungry now, but also very tired. (And she would not, besides, receive any share of the guinea, or even know that it had been paid.)
The white velvet-covered coffin was carefully placed on to the waiting horse-drawn hearse and, with head bowed and hands clasped together, Grace began to walk before it through the frost-touched glades. She was followed by the usual bag and baggage of the mourning industry: feather-bearers, stave-carriers and two child mutes who’d been taken off the streets for the occasion, followed in turn by the dead girl’s would-be husband, family, friends and servants, all in deepest black, with mourning rings and black leather gloves supplied as funeral favours by her father.
The graveside service seemed interminable, for the two priests – one from the dead girl’s local church, plus the old family friend who would have married her – seemed at loggerheads and could not decide who would have the last word on her life. As one droned a speech about death overcoming all, this was topped by the other giving a sermon on the frailty of life. When, eventually, the service was over and a great many tears had been shed, the mourners made their way to the first-class refreshment room for the cake and a nip of brandy, leaving Grace a little time on her own before the train went back to Waterloo.
She went straight to the resting place of Susannah Solent, and found there the mausoleum which James Solent had told her that his father was having constructed. It was a grand edifice, Egyptian style, with a pyramid roof, two sphinxes on guard each side of the doorway and shiny hammered-metal doors. Grace could not resist peering through the side window and there saw a picture of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, a miniature altar with crucifix and two little tapestry-covered praying chairs such as one might find in a church. There were also marble shelves with spaces for eight coffins, although only the bottom one was filled.
Grace, seeing Susannah Solent’s coffin and knowing what else it contained, began to weep, the force of her grief surprising her. She wept for her lost child, for the unhappiness of her life and because she was parted from Lily. She wept because she did not seem to have a future – or only one that was governed by the Unwins, and because they were not at all the sort of people to whom she wanted to be indebted. Mostly she cried because she didn’t seem to be living the right sort of life, the life she’d always promised herself.
She stood there until she could get her tears under control, then said another sad and silent farewell to her child and began to make her way back to the path which led to the station. Reaching this, she found a well-dressed young lady waiting there and was immensely surprised when this person addressed her.
‘Good morning,’ said Miss Charlotte Unwin, ‘and excuse me for asking such a thing, but did you know Miss Solent?’
Grace, unprepared for this question, thought it wisest not to lie in case the young lady was trying to catch her out. ‘No, I didn’t. Not personally,’ she admitted.
‘But – forgive me – I was watching you at her mausoleum and you were grieving very deeply.’
Grace felt a little alarmed at this and, playing for time, adjusted her veiling. ‘She was not known to me personally, but . . . but her charity work was. They called her Princess of the Poor, did they not?’ she said, recalling the engraved silver plate on Susannah’s coffin.
‘Oh. So you . . . ?’
‘Yes, I benefitted from her aid,’ Grace said. Which was true in a way, she thought. She looked at the girl standing before her, who was dressed in the very best and most fashionable shade of purple half-mourning, the gown expensively frilled and ruched, a white fur tippet at her neck.
‘I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself, but I was just so surprised to see you there.’ She smiled. ‘I am Miss Charlotte Unwin.’
Grace, startled and wondering how long the girl had been watching her, was rather late in bobbing a curtsey.
‘I came here with my mother today.’ Charlotte Unwin hesitated, trying her hardest to look friendly and caring. ‘She thinks I should learn about our business and wanted me to meet one of our best mutes.’
Feeling immediately that she was being spied upon, Grace did not know what to answer to this.
‘There! Please don’t go silent on me,’ Charlotte Unwin said. ‘I can assure you that I mean you no harm.’
Grace cleared her throat. ‘I’m sure you do not. I didn’t see you before, Miss Charlotte. Were you on the train?’
‘No, Mama and I came down here by carriage, and now she is at the graveside looking after the poor dead bride’s parents.’ There was a pause. ‘But your name is Grace, is it not? And how long have you been working for my family, Grace?’
‘For several months now,’ Grace replied. ‘And I must thank you for taking such a kindly interest in my sister. She’s told me of your attentions to her,’ she added.
‘Not at all,’ Charlotte Unwin said. ‘She’s a hard worker and a . . . a great character, your sister.’ She gave a light laugh. ‘She hasn’t only got me for a friend, though.’
Grace looked at her enquiringly. ‘You mean – the other servants?’
‘No, I mean she has a young male friend. A follower who works for one of our neighbours as a groom.’
‘She has a follower?’ Grace asked, astounded.
‘Indeed she has! I do believe his intentions are serious.’
Grace shook her head. ‘There must be some mistake, surely. My sister is . . . is . . .’ She struggled for the right word to describe Lily’s condition, but Charlotte Unwin seemed to know what she meant.
‘Never fear! The young man in question is a simple country soul,’ she said. ‘I believe them to be well suited.’
Grace absorbed this information with some difficulty. Miss Charlotte must be mistaken. Lily couldn’t possibly have a young man! She’d not said anything about it when Grace had been to the house and it was most unlikely – near impossible, in fact – that she could keep anything like that to herself.
‘Please don’t concern yourself about it,’ Charlotte Unwin said. ‘It’s a decent match and I’m sure your family will approve.’
‘We have no family,’ Grace murmured, still stunned. ‘There is only me and Lily.’
‘Oh, of course!’ Charlotte Unwin said. ‘Do forgive me. Lily told me about your father going away and the death of your mama. You used to live in Wimbledon, I believe.’
Grace nodded.
‘I have a very dear friend who lives in a lane just off the high street. Did you live anywhere near?’
‘Quite close. Mama rented a cottage for us on the green – I can just remember it.’
‘How delightful! Not the little white one which is smothered in flowers all summer?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t think it was white. It had a mulberry tree in the front garden, and was named after that.’
‘How lovely!’ said Charlotte Unwin. It seemed, however, that she had got to know this particular Unwin employee quite well enough, for she abruptly bid Grace farewell and said she had to return to her mother.
To avoid walking back with her, Grace pretended she had something to do in the opposite direction and walked under the trees for a while, wondering about what Miss Unwin had said. Surely it couldn’t be true about Lily having a follower?
To try and distance herself from this worrying information, she began to read the epitaphs on the stones, but they mostly seemed to indicate that your time on earth would not be long and that you would be gone before you knew it, which did not make for pleasant reading. After sighing over many young children dead before their time, Grace made her way to the third-class refreshment room in order to drink a bowl of hot soup, for she was feeling almost faint with hunger. She would have to stay out of sight of any Unwins, of course, for eating and drinking were against the rules. Mutes, Mrs Unwin maintained, should not eat or drink any more than they should converse, for they were supposed to be entirely dedicated, almost celestial figures, far above human wants and needs.
Throwing back her veil to drink her soup, Grace had the second spoonful to her mouth when she was tapped on the shoulder.
A woman said, ‘Dear girl, is it really you?’
Looking round she found Mrs Macready standing there, dressed in black from head to toe, and consequently looking much smarter than she’d ever appeared in Seven Dials.
‘Oh, my dear! Who has died?’ Mrs Macready, continued, sitting down and taking in Grace’s weeds. ‘Not your sister?’
Grace assured her that Lily was perfectly well and working as a maid (which caused Mrs Macready to look rather surprised). ‘And I’m only wearing mourning because I’m working for the Unwins as a mute,’ she added in a low voice, ‘and as such, am not
supposed to speak with anyone.’
Mrs Macready gasped. ‘Well, I never!’
As there were hardly any mourners left in the refreshment room by this time, Grace went on, ‘But how are you, Mrs Macready? I trust no one too close to you has died?’
‘Yes, well, I’m afraid it was old Mr and Mrs Beale,’ that lady sighed.
Grace gave a little cry. ‘How sad!’
‘They went within a day of each other, God save their hearts, and the Blind Society paid for a third-class funeral here.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘But bless me, what a place it is, and to come on the train and all! Such a treat to ride in a train with the gentry in the next carriage!’ The old woman suddenly clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘But I’m forgetting – someone came to my son’s house asking for you!’
Grace looked at her in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘A woman . . . now, what was her name?’ Mrs Macready scratched her head under her veil. ‘She knew that you’d once lodged with me and said that if I ever saw you again I was to tell you to get in touch. Gave me her address . . . Her name was a very ordinary one: Smith,’ Mrs Macready said triumphantly. ‘Yes, she called herself Mrs Smith!’
Grace made a business of lowering her veil back into position, hoping that Mrs Macready wouldn’t see that her hands were shaking. ‘I don’t think I know a Mrs Smith.’ She tried to smile. ‘It sounds very much like a false name.’
‘I’ve got her address written down somewhere. I could let you have it if you like.’
Grace patted the woman’s hand. ‘I don’t think I will, Mrs Macready, thank you. No reflection on you, but I’ve left that old life behind me now.’
‘Of course, dear. You please yourself,’ said Mrs Macready. ‘She may have been on the make. You can never be too sure,’ she added.
Grace nodded. That had been her first thought: that ‘Mrs Smith’ had found out that she’d got a regular job and was going to try and blackmail her about the baby.
‘But I thank you for telling me, and hope that we meet again under happier circumstances,’ Grace said, and she brushed her veiled cheek against the other woman’s and went to board the train.
