Emma’s face was as pink as the rose as she bent to secure it. ‘Thank you, it’s very fragrant.’
‘Now, where do you propose we go?’ They linked arms. She carried only her purse while he had a valise in his free hand. She had not packed a picnic as he had written that he would treat her to lunch.
‘I don’t mind. Why don’t we walk and talk but, later, could we go on a boat trip? It only takes half an hour to the marker and back again, apparently. You wouldn’t even have to row!’
‘Well, I’d rather sit alongside you, holding on to you while the boat rocks, and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. But let’s find a tea shop first – I’m dry as a bone!’
They strolled along a parade of small shops, including a photographic studio, where they studied the amazing portraits of local worthies in the window. ‘Would you like to have your photograph taken?’ TF asked Emma.
‘Oh, I’m too windblown today – and they all look so poker-faced! Maybe back in London, eh?’ Much later she would regret that she had refused.
He was interested in the map shop. ‘Think of the hours and patience it takes to make a map!’
Emma spotted a tea shop and bakery. ‘I’m dying for a cup of tea, too!’ They went down stone steps to a low-beamed room beyond the counters piled with loaves and cakes under glass domes. The basement room was rather dark, but they found a vacant table by the window, so that they could look out and see the world go by, or at least their feet at that level.
They were the only customers apart from an elderly man who put up his newspaper as a barrier so he didn’t have to speak to them, though they only had eyes for each other.
‘Anna says I am to bring you back to the house for supper. You can’t come and go without seeing her! It’s my day off, so she will be cooking something tasty, assisted by Nan.’
‘Does that mean I will meet Mr Summers and his family?’
‘Would you mind that? They have been more than kind to me – and Anna.’
‘I imagine they would not like to lose you—’
‘I haven’t thought of leaving!’ she said, as the waitress arrived with their tea and scones.
They buttered the split scones and took a spoonful of raspberry jam in turn from a little pot. When they had eaten and sipped some of the hot tea, TF said, ‘Emma – I know it hasn’t been long since we met, but I expect you can guess how I feel about you?’
She looked into those blue eyes. ‘Of course I know how you feel, because, well, I feel the same way about you. I used to think it couldn’t be true, stories about love at first sight.’
‘I don’t want to wait; I intend to marry you, Emma.’
‘It won’t be two years until January, since I came to London. I’ve been so happy in my work.’
‘I know. I also know we need to be together. Let’s go and enjoy the rest of the day, eh?’
TF spread his jacket on the stones, and they sat on the beach during the afternoon. Emma looked for unusual pebbles and shells, filling her bag with a selection. TF watched the fishing boats come in to shore and recalled his days at sea. The man and dog were tidying up the hire boats. A new sign was up: Last trip of the day.
‘We mustn’t miss that,’ TF observed. He helped Emma to her feet. ‘It’ll be sunset soon, and we still have supper to come at the house, and then I have to catch the last train home.’
The blue-painted boat of their choice was launched, the oars were plied, and Emma sat close to TF on the wooden seat, with his arm supporting her back and her face pressed against his shoulder as the spray flew up at them. The dog lounged in the well of the boat, while his master puffed on his clay pipe and pulled on the oars. As they approached the marker, they became aware that the water around them shimmered with reflected light from the sky above, which was streaked with glorious crimson. By the time they arrived back on the shore, it was dusk.
As they walked back across the stony beach, deserted now, they paused at the wrought-iron bench at the top. ‘Let’s rest here for a bit,’ TF suggested. He hugged Emma to him and for the first time, they kissed. She trembled, as his hands strayed under her shawl. She stretched her arms up and tentatively stroked his hair. He released her suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, Emma, I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Nor could I,’ she whispered. ‘I must find my comb; we both need to tidy our hair before I introduce you to the family.’ They didn’t realise that their bemused expressions gave them away, not only to Anna, but to Mr Summers, recalling when he’d fallen in love himself, twenty years ago.
*
Back in London on a pleasant October afternoon, Emma and TF met for the first time since Brighton. In Hyde Park, the trees were turning and flowerbeds reflected the seasonal change too, with clumps of purple chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies.
‘Such a lovely earthy smell to autumn,’ TF observed. ‘Leaves on the paths and grass, the smell of bonfires and mist. Time to roast chestnuts by the fire . . .’
They smiled at each other: it was a nostalgic memory for both of them, though TF could only remember one such occasion when he was living with his family in Harbottle. He gave a little sigh, we were happy then, as a family, he thought.
‘Let’s listen to the band,’ he suggested. They made their way to the bandstand and joined the audience who were tapping their feet to the infectious beat of the brass band. The bandsmen in their scarlet jackets played with verve. Later, they had planned a special treat – fish and chips, the latest food sensation, which was now available all over London.
The smell was irresistible, the queue long, but they waited patiently by the flaring gas light attached to the side wall of the shop. ‘It makes a nice change,’ Emma said, ‘not cooking my own supper!’
TF agreed. ‘It’s bread and cheese usually for me, that’s if I’m not called out.’
They were walking home, for it delayed the time when they would have to part. They paused now and then to extract chips from the newspaper parcel, having decided against the fish. ‘You need to sit down at a table to eat that,’ TF said.
The chips were hot and greasy, and Emma remarked, ‘I am enjoying them, but I could do with a nice cup of tea!’
When they had eaten their fill, they walked on, past the noisy beer houses on every corner and now and then, when no one was about, TF would steal a kiss. ‘Your lips are all salty, Emma. I wish we were going to our own little home together. I wish . . .’
‘I know what you wish, Tom.’
‘You haven’t called me that before.’
‘D’you mind?’
‘Not at all. Our own little home, Emma – I will be entitled to that when I get married – we won’t have to struggle like most newlyweds. Will you marry me?’
‘Yes, Tom – yes!’ Like TF, Emma was finding it difficult to hold back, but she was her mother’s daughter and believed in waiting until she was wed.
*
Christmas had come around again but Emma waited until Boxing Day to tell the family that she and TF hoped to be married in January. She wished that TF was with her to offer his support, but he was on duty as this was always a busy time for firefighters. She had opened his presents early on Christmas morning and was delighted with the polished wooden writing box filled with cream, watermarked paper and envelopes but, even better, was Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. He had written inside: To dear Emma, from her loving husband-to-be, Tom. Christmas 1862.
The staff was invited to join the family in the drawing room for hot mince pies and Christmas cake, handed round on dainty blue-and-white plates by Frances. Mr Summers poured small glasses of sherry and walked round with these on a silver tray. The ladies wore their new crinoline gowns and chatted pleasantly of this and that. The Christmas log fire gave out a good heat, and after the sherry, eyelids were seen to droop. Miss Adelaide rustled to the piano and began to play favourite carols, urging the company to ‘Sing up and be merry!’ They drowned out the snoring from the old retainer, who was guarding the decanters
, while the boys admitted defeat, sloping off to their room. Emma was sitting by herself at the back of the group, rehearsing silently what she must say when her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She fumbled for her handkerchief, hoping no one would notice.
Mr Summers was sitting nearby, apart from all the female singers.
‘Here, take mine,’ he said. He beckoned to her. ‘Come and tell me why you’re upset, Emma, we can’t have that at Christmas.’ She took the large handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
‘I was remembering Christmas at home. We went to church in the morning and had our Christmas dinner in the evening. My mother was a wonderful cook, and we would all sit up at the table, while Father carved the goose and I watched that my little sisters didn’t spill gravy on the best tablecloth.’
‘You must miss them all,’ he said quietly.
‘I do! But I have been so happy here, Mr Summers—’
‘You put that in the past tense, Emma. Is there something else you wish to tell me?’
‘Oh, sir – Tom has asked me to marry him, next month, if we can find a church where we are welcome, as he is a Catholic and I am an Anglican, but I shall be sad to leave you all.’
‘My dear Emma, we guessed this would be the case, when we saw you and your young man together at Brighton. As for a church, I will have a word with our rector at St Stephen’s. Also, Emma, ah, I must speak with my sisters first, naturally, but I am sure that they will be excited and wish to be involved.’
‘Mr Summers, could Frances be my bridesmaid – and – would you consider giving me away? I know my brother William would want to do so, but I can’t expect him to travel all this way.’
‘I should be honoured,’ Mr Summers said. ‘Make your announcement after the singing.’
FOURTEEN
London, 1863
On 26 January Emma awoke at 6 a.m. and her first thought was, today is my wedding day! She had celebrated her twenty-third birthday three days before by making three large sponge cakes, slicing them and sandwiching the halves together with home-made lemon curd. Then she dusted the tops of each cake with fine sugar. The birthday cakes were much appreciated by those upstairs and downstairs and by TF when he arrived for a brief visit during the evening.
She rinsed her face and hands in cold water, for it was her decision to be up so early and the maids would not yet be at work. She snuggled into her flannel wrapper – oh, it was chilly this morning, but not snowing, she hoped. She didn’t pull the curtains to find out. Then she tiptoed quietly along the corridor to the kitchen where she lit the lamp and went into the pantry to fetch the wedding cake. Now that the royal icing had hardened she could place the final decorations, including the tiny china figurines of bride and groom, which Mr Summers had presented her with. ‘These were on our wedding cake – they can be your “something borrowed”, eh?’ Then she would garland her masterpiece with a silver ribbon.
Emma was so absorbed in what she was doing that she didn’t notice she was no longer alone in the kitchen. Nan had arrived, face red from the cold and out of breath, for she had run some of the way to get her circulation going. ‘My, it’s freezing outside, Emma, and whatever are you doin’ in ’ere on your weddin’ mornin’?’
‘I’ll leave you to guard the cake – it’s going back in its box in the pantry – then I’ll return to my room and pack up the rest of my things. Anna is fetching me to have a bath upstairs later on. What time do you expect Mrs Love to arrive? Will you manage the breakfast on your own?’
‘Cook will be ’ere ’fore ten and will foller your menu for the weddin’ breakfast,’ Nan said. Then she added proudly, ‘I’m to be assistant cook from today, Miss Maria said it was your idea. And course, I can do scrambling eggs for one an’ all! Anyway, Lily and Rose are givin’ me an ’and.’
‘Don’t forget the grapefruit for the ladies.’
‘I won’t, Emma – good luck! I’ll see you in the church!’
‘Oh, one last thing, remember you are a witness, and have to write your proper name.’
‘I’ve never been called it, but I’ll be Ann Butterworth, jest for today,’ Nan promised.
I shall miss the yellow tulips on the washstand, Emma thought later, as she looked around her room. I was the luckiest girl in the world to come to this house; everyone who lives here is a true friend, upstairs and down. I will miss them all. How kind of Mr Summers and the ladies to allow us to have our celebration meal here. I am grateful to the ladies for helping me choose my wedding dress and paying for it too, and to dear Anna who insisted on buying the flowers.
At that moment came a knock on the door. It was Anna with two cups of tea and some shortbread biscuits. ‘Lily and Rose are filling the bath tub, but we are tiptoeing about as it is so early. Old Joseph is seeing to the fires.’
It was the first time Emma had been inside the family bathroom upstairs. The steam was rising from the hot water in the white bath with its mahogany surround. Anna closed the door. Everything was ready. Towels folded neatly, soap in a dish, a new flannel. Emma slipped out of her robe and nightgown. She leaned over the bath and felt the water. It was not too hot, so she was able to climb in the tub. Anna had fastened her hair up in a topknot, for Emma had washed it the day before.
Anna sat on a chair, towel on her lap, waiting to wrap her friend in it when she emerged from the water. She averted her gaze from Emma’s naked body for this was a sight reserved for her new husband. There was a bag with Emma’s new underwear, but she would need to cover up again with her robe before she went downstairs, where her wedding gown, along with the bridesmaid’s outfit, hung in the closet. But first they would eat breakfast together in Emma’s room. Then Anna must leave her while she attended the ladies. Frances should have joined Emma by then.
‘The scrambled eggs are perfect.’ Emma tucked into her breakfast.
‘Thanks to you teaching young Nan how to cook.’ Anna took a curl of butter from the dish and spread it on her toast, then helped herself to more soft, golden egg. ‘Well, Miss Wright, you’ll be answering to Mrs Meehan before the wedding breakfast!’
‘While you, dear Anna, will be my aunt by marriage – but still my best friend!’
‘The flowers have arrived,’ Frances told Emma, when she appeared just as Anna left the room. ‘I’m to help you dress, then Anna will come back and arrange your hair – and mine, I hope.’
Emma thought wistfully, I should have had my younger sisters as bridesmaids too. She had received gifts from them all: a lucky silver horseshoe from Rebecca, a pressed flower picture from Keturah and a leather-bound book from Jerusha for her wedding and family photographs. Martha had sent a picture of her two small children and Lizzie had embroidered a pair of pillowcases. William and Sarah sent the young couple a tea service with a pattern of forget-me-nots like her mother’s cup and saucer. She still treasured that, and always would. That special cup and saucer were bone china, but the new set could be used every day because it was more serviceable. It was lovely, she thought, they had remembered the original cup and saucer and what it meant to her . . . Her family were doing well, it seemed. She blinked back sudden tears as she put the new tea set carefully back in its box. If only my mother and father could be here with me today, she thought.
It was time for Emma to don her wedding finery. The crinoline was gradually being superseded by a different shape, straight-cut at the front with all the fullness at the back of the dress, the forerunner of the bustle. Not that Emma had worn one of those cumbersome contraptions – like a cage which held out enormous skirts. They were for formal occasions, not for working women. However, she had been persuaded by Miss Maria that she should wear a laced corset over her chemise, to accentuate her bosom and flatten her stomach. ‘Help!’ she appealed now to Frances. ‘If I hold on to the back of the chair, will you pull the laces tight?’ It was quite a struggle, and they emerged from it thankfully. ‘My mother was right,’ Emma said ruefully, ‘a corset is an instrument of torture.’ She’d never had the need for
one before because she had a trim figure, with high, firm breasts.
The sleeves of the beautiful red velvet gown were cleverly fashioned from two pieces of material, sloping at the shoulder, then wide to the elbow, tapering to the wrist and fastened with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. More of these were on the tight bodice, from the lace-trimmed high collar to the waist. It was just the right material for a wintry day, warm and glowing with colour. Emma had chosen it because it reminded her of the sunset over the water in Brighton, but only TF would know that.
Frances stroked the white fur cape which Miss Adelaide had lent Emma to keep her warm. ‘I hope she leaves me this in her will!’
Emma exclaimed reprovingly, ‘Frances! What a thing to say – don’t repeat it to your aunt!’ she added with feeling, ‘I shall be glad to take this wretched corset off by the end of the day.’
‘Are you going to use the muff Aunt Rosalie gave you?’ This was also made of white fur.
‘In the carriage, but not down the aisle. I have my prayer book and flowers to carry.’
Anna returned to dress their hair. While she attended to Emma, covering her shoulders with a cotton cape, Frances changed into her bridesmaid’s frock. Gold velvet, in a more grown-up style than the calf-length skirts she usually wore, as this skirt skimmed her ankles.
It was not considered seemly for a bride to wear her hair loose, but ringlets or loops of hair could cover the ears, while back hair was parted and coiled in the nape of the neck. It was actually a good style on which to perch her hat, which was in the new, small style and was white felt, decorated with a red silk rose and skewered with a hat pin. Emma was not too sure about the hat, but Anna assured her it would stay in place. Once she had finished with Emma, she turned to Frances. ‘Now, let’s see what I can do for you!’
*
The staff stood in the doorway, waving and calling, ‘Good luck!’ to the bride and her bridesmaid who were escorted by Mr Summers, elegant in a new single-breasted suit, which revealed a glimpse of the high, starched collar, gold cravat and matching brocade waistcoat. He doffed his top hat to those watching, as he joined Emma and Frances in the carriage. A second carriage awaited the Misses Summers, Anna and Nan, for Anna had requested that the girl should not make her way there on foot in the drizzle.
The Forget-Me-Not Girl Page 12
