Flora, who was waiting at the door for her when she returned home, saw at a glance that her young mistress’s eyes were swollen from crying, but then she supposed that this was to be expected. Connie’s father had been the only close living relative that the girl had, so far as Flora knew, apart from an aunt who she had not seen for many years who lived in New York.
‘Come on, miss,’ she said kindly. ‘There’s a nice hot pot of coffee being made for you. Shall I tell Gertie to bring it to you in the day room?’
‘No … thank you, Flora, but I’m feeling rather tired. I think I’ll have it in my room.’
‘Of course. I’ll just let Gertie know then I’ll help you up the stairs,’ Flora offered.
Connie almost bit her head off when she snapped, ‘It’s my arm that’s broken not my legs, in case you hadn’t noticed!’ Then instantly repentant she muttered, ‘Sorry, Flora. I … I just seem …’
‘It’s all right,’ Flora soothed like a mother to a child. ‘You’re just tired and upset, but hopefully you’ll feel a little better when you’ve had a decent nap. I know you can’t sleep properly in hospital. I went in when I was about ten to have my tonsils out and the moans and groans from the other beds kept me awake all night.’
Connie nodded wearily as Flora gently steered her towards the staircase. On the way they passed the coat stand and at the sight of her father’s Sunday best coat hanging there, Connie began to sob loudly.
‘It’s so unfair. My father was such a kind man. Why did this have to happen?’
‘I don’t know, miss,’ Flora answered gravely as tears pricked at the back of her own eyes.
Connie was quite wobbly on her feet, no doubt because of the shock and her numerous cuts and bruises and Flora walked steadily behind her in case she fell. Once in Connie’s room, Flora carefully helped her off with her gown. It was dotted with blood and the nurses at the hospital had been forced to cut the sleeve off it to get it over her plaster cast. But from now on that would be the least of the girl’s worries. She had wardrobes full of gowns and this one could easily be replaced. But sadly she could never replace her father and Flora could only imagine how she must be feeling.
Flora had just slipped a nightgown over her head and helped her into bed when Gertie appeared with the coffee tray and some freshly baked shortbread still warm from the oven. Knowing how much she liked it the kindly cook had made it especially for her but today Connie merely shook her head and pushed the plate away.
‘I’m not really hungry,’ she said listlessly. ‘I’ll perhaps just have a little coffee.’
Gertie scurried away as Flora poured it but by the time she had added milk and sugar and carried it to the bed, Connie, who was clearly exhausted, was already fast asleep.
Flora hastily threw some more coal onto the fire and closed the curtains to shut out the dismal day before creeping downstairs to the kitchen.
‘Ah well, happen sleep is the best cure for ’er in a case like this,’ the cook commented as she kneaded some dough for a fresh batch of bread. ‘I’ll make ’er a nice pan o’ fresh chicken soup fer when she wakes up. Meantime, I should get rid o’ that if I was you.’ She nodded towards the ruined gown across Flora’s arm. ‘It’ll only upset ’er an’ bring everything back every time she looks at it.’
Flora agreed and hurried outside, shivering, to dispose of it. When she got back to the warmth of the kitchen the housekeeper was there too and she and the cook were discussing what might become of them all as the cook poured them all a cup of hot, sweet tea.
‘I can’t see the young mistress bein’ allowed to stay ’ere on ’er own,’ the cook commented. ‘She ain’t of age yet.’
‘Well, Mr Wainthrop is returning tomorrow with the master’s will. Hopefully we’ll all know more then,’ Mrs Merry answered glumly. ‘But if he has left instructions for the house to be sold then we’ll all be out of a job.’
At this, Gertie started to cry softly and Flora patted her arm. ‘We’ll be all right, you’ll see,’ she told her with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘My ma’s a great one for saying everything happens for a reason.’
For now all they could do was sit back and wait to see what fate had in store for them.
On the dot of two o’clock the next afternoon Mr Wainthrop arrived and Gertie showed him into the drawing room where Connie was waiting for him. Flora was with her and she instantly rose to leave, intending to give her mistress some privacy, but Connie caught at her arm. ‘No, don’t go, Flora,’ she implored. ‘I want you to stay with me.’
Flora glanced uncomfortably at Mr Wainthrop but when he gave her a kindly smile she sat back down, lowered her eyes and folded her hands primly in her lap as Connie had taught her to do.
‘How are you feeling today, m’dear?’ he enquired gently although Connie’s bloodshot eyes had already given him his answer. He scratched his head then, clearly feeling ill at ease as he took a seat and informed her, ‘I have made all the funeral arrangements as you requested. It will be conducted three days before Christmas Day. I’m afraid I couldn’t get it any earlier. There’s another flu epidemic you see and …’ His voice trailed away. This was proving to be particularly difficult for him. Connie’s father had been a close friend for much of his adult life, added to which he’d had a soft spot for Connie right from the day her parents had adopted her. Even so there were legal things to be addressed so putting aside his feelings as best he could he withdrew a legal-looking document from a leather case and cleared his throat.
‘This is your father’s last will and testament,’ he began in a voice little above a whisper. ‘He updated it every year at my office in the presence of a witness. Normally it wouldn’t be read until after the funeral but because of the circumstances I thought you would like to know what it contains. Shall I proceed?’
Connie nodded as tears burned at the back of her eyes and so he began. Most of what he was saying went in one ear and out of the other until something suddenly made her glance up with a startled look on her face. ‘What did you just say?’ she demanded. Surely she had misheard him?
‘I told you that your father’s wish, should anything happen to him before you reached your majority, was that you should go and reside with your aunt, Alexandra Ward, in New York.’
‘But I don’t even know her,’ Connie yelped. ‘And … New York! But what about the house?’
‘Ah, now your father suggested that you might like to close it up with just one person staying here to maintain it until you come of age. Alternatively, if you’d prefer, it could be sold. The choice is entirely yours. As for your aunt, I have sent her a telegram telling her of what has happened but I haven’t yet received a reply … although I’m sure I will,’ he added hastily. Then, after studying the papers in front of him for some minutes he went on, ‘It appears that your aunt was your late mother’s younger sister.’
‘I already know that,’ Connie said waspishly. ‘She has always sent birthday cards, Christmas cards and presents for as long as I can remember. But I don’t actually know her, do I? What if we don’t like each other? How could Father do this to me?’ She was clearly very upset and Victor Wainthrop almost felt as if it was all his fault.
‘I’m sure she will love you,’ he muttered ineffectually.
Connie thought on his words for a moment before saying, ‘And what if she doesn’t even want me there?’
‘Oh, apparently she and your father have had this arrangement ever since your mother passed away.’
‘I see.’ Connie chewed on her lip. ‘And is there an uncle there?’
Mr Wainthrop hastily turned his attention back to the paperwork balanced on his knee and after a moment he nodded. ‘Yes, it appears so.’ Then in a softer voice he told her, ‘This agreement only stands until you are twenty-one, Connie. And then if you are unhappy you are free to come back and reopen the house. Meanwhile, you are now a very wealthy young woman. The house, business and all his assets are yours. It only remains for you to decide if y
ou wish to keep the businesses running with managers in place and me overseeing them, or if you wish them to be sold. But there’s no need to make a decision right away. Let’s give you a few days to get over the shock of everything that’s happened and then when the funeral is behind us after Christmas you can decide what you wish to do. Whatever it is, I promise that I will assist you in any way I can.’
Her face softened then and she looked at him guiltily. He and her father had always been such close friends that she was sure he must be feeling his loss too. ‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry for being so difficult. It’s just that within such a short time my whole world has turned upside down and I just can’t make myself believe that I’ll never see my father again … I keep expecting him to walk through the door and …’ She began to cry and Flora hurried across and placed her arm about her shoulder. For now she forgot that this young woman was her mistress. She was just another girl the same age as herself who was grieving for her parent.
Mr Wainthrop meanwhile was gathering his papers together and Flora could have sworn she saw tears sparkling on his lashes too.
‘Well, that’s about all for now,’ he said as he rose from his seat. ‘Please don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything you need. And, er … should you wish to say your final goodbyes to your father he will be lying in the chapel of rest at Ducalles’ Undertakers as from tomorrow morning.’
He pressed a piece of paper with the address into Flora’s hand and she nodded. Then after gently squeezing Connie’s heaving shoulder he quickly departed.
After a while Connie calmed down a little and Flora hurried away to fetch her a tray of tea, silently scolding herself that she hadn’t thought to offer Mr Wainthrop a cup, but then it wasn’t really her place to and Connie was clearly far too distressed to think about niceties.
‘So what’s happenin’?’ the rosy-cheeked cook asked the second Flora entered the kitchen.
Gertie and Mrs Merry were also there and they too looked at her expectantly. ‘I, er … don’t really think it’s my place to tell you,’ Flora muttered.
The cook rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘Why ever not? If we’re goin’ to be hoofed out onto the street don’t yer think we ’ave a right to know?’
‘Of course you do,’ Flora agreed hastily. ‘And I’m sure Miss Connie will tell you what’s happening very soon. In fact, I’ll ask her to speak to you as soon as she feels up to it – but I’m in the same boat, you know? If you lose your jobs, I’ll lose mine too.’ The thought was depressing. She’d enjoyed being Connie’s maid. She’d started off doing the job that Gertie did now until Connie had asked her father if she might become her maid and companion. Edward Ogilvie had always found it very hard to deny his daughter anything but in actual fact he had thought it was a very good idea for his daughter to have someone her own age to spend time with now that she was a little older and was no longer receiving schooling. And so Flora had been promoted and her life had changed drastically for the better from that moment on.
Admittedly Connie had been spoiled and could be quite moody at times but, overall, they had got on well together and Flora had never looked back. She had been fortunate enough to accompany her young mistress on shopping trips and now she wore smart but plain dresses instead of the drab maid’s outfit she had become accustomed to. Connie had helped her to improve her reading and writing skills and had done her best to rid her of her cockney accent too. But now it looked as if it was all about to come to an end and Flora hated the thought of having to go back to being a general maid again, not that she had much choice. She wasn’t trained to be anything else.
Clearly with her nose out of joint, the cook huffed and turned her attention back to the saucepan she was stirring as Flora prepared a tea tray and left the room as soon as she could.
Back in the drawing room, Connie was staring dully into the fireplace. Glancing up as Flora came in, she asked, ‘So what did you think of that then? I’m to be carted off to live with someone I’ve never even met as if I’m nothing more than a parcel!’
‘I’m sure your father was only doing what he thought was best for you,’ Flora assured her as she strained tea into two delicate china teacups. ‘I suppose he just wanted to make sure you’d be taken care of, and I doubt he would ask someone who he thought you might not like to step in. Your aunt is probably a lovely person.’
Connie sniffed. ‘But I still can’t see why I can’t just stay here!’
After being brought up in Whitechapel, Flora was a lot more worldly wise than her mistress, who had led a sheltered, cossetted life. ‘Think about it. You’re only just eighteen and if what Mr Wainthrop said is right, you’re a very wealthy young woman. You’ll have every young blade in London after you now and it might not be for the right reason. They could be just after your money … Not that you’re not very pretty,’ she added hastily, as Connie scowled.
After a while Connie nodded. ‘I can see what you mean but I’m not a complete idiot, you know? I’m sure I would recognise the gold-diggers.’
‘Well, as Mr Wainthrop said, you have no need to make your mind up about anything just yet. But whatever you decide to do about the house and businesses, the house is going to be shut up for a few years, so perhaps you should give the staff warning? I know they’re all worrying about losing their jobs but if you tell them what’s happening at least they’ll have time to look round for other positions.’
Seeing the sense in what Flora said, Connie nodded glumly. ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘But not tonight …’ And then once more she broke into a torrent of fresh weeping as Flora looked on helplessly.
Chapter Two
Over the next days, Connie had an endless stream of visitors all wishing to pay their respects and offer their condolences. Somehow Connie greeted each of them with dignity. The tears had dried up for now but she seemed to be a mere shadow of her former self, barely eating and seemingly only existing on endless cups of tea.
‘I’m really worried about her,’ Flora confided to the cook one evening after she had helped Connie prepare for bed. ‘I think even the tears were better than seeing her as she is now. She hardly says a word but just floats about the house like a lost soul.’
‘Ah, well that’s the thing wi’ grief,’ Cook nodded, setting her chins wobbling. ‘There’s different stages you ’ave to go through. I were the same when I lost me ’usband. First there’s the tears an’ the shock, then it turns into like a dull acceptance. An’ the thing is everyone takes losin’ someone close to ’em differently. It’s worse for that poor girl, cos her father were the only one who ever really showed her any affection. When her mother were alive she just went through the motions to save face. But Connie an’ her dad adored each other, see, so she’s bound to take it ’ard. The only thing you can do is what you’re doin’ now. Just be there for ’er. She’ll come out of it ’opefully once the funeral’s over, but it takes time.’
Flora could only bow to the woman’s superior wisdom and hope that she was right, but it didn’t stop her worrying all the same. And now there was the funeral to get through tomorrow and Cook had been baking from morning till night to prepare food for any of the mourners who might wish to return to the house after the service. Briefly she wondered whether she ought to decorate the Christmas tree that had arrived the day before. It transpired that Mr Ogilvie had ordered it to be delivered shortly before the accident. Normally Connie and Flora would have spent the whole afternoon giggling as they decorated it with the pretty glass baubles that were packed safely away each year, but today it merely stood propped up against the wall in the hallway. No one even had the heart to stand it in a bucket of earth, let alone decorate it.
‘We’ll chuck that tree out into the yard in a while. No point leavin’ it standing there droppin’ its needles all over the place if we ain’t goin’ to dress it,’ said Cook.
Flora nodded absently, wondering if cook was a mind-reader and wishing with all her heart that the next day could
just be over.
It dawned grey and overcast. The snow had thawed and what was left of it was slushy and slippery underfoot. The dressmaker had rushed to make Connie a black dress with a wide sleeve that would slide over the plaster on her arm and the girl stood lifelessly as Flora helped her into it. Her bruises had faded from an angry purple to dull yellows and greys that made her look sallow and ill but the doctor had informed her that she would need to keep the cast on for at least another four weeks. Connie didn’t seem to care. In fact, Flora was concerned that she didn’t seem to care about anything anymore. It was as if she had locked herself away in a little world of her own where no one could reach her, but again Cook promised her that this was normal. ‘She’ll come out of it eventually,’ she had assured her.
Now Flora piled the girl’s hair up onto the top of her head and placed a bonnet with a short black veil on her and they were ready to go. At Connie’s insistence she too was dressed from head to toe in black and although the gown Connie had bought for her was the best she had ever worn, Flora felt uncomfortable in it.
When they stepped outside the first thing they saw was a glass hearse pulled by four magnificent coal-black stallions with plumes on their heads. Inside the hearse was Mr Ogilvie’s coffin, the finest that money could buy: lead-lined and carved from rosewood with solid brass handles. Even the sight of this didn’t prompt a reaction from Connie, and she climbed silently into the carriage behind it, closely followed by Flora who she had insisted should accompany her. A fine drizzle had begun to fall and when they reached the church a thick fog obscured some of the gravestones from view.
Throughout the service Flora kept a close eye on her mistress, who stood woodenly, not even attempting to join in the prayers or the singing. Finally it was over and the pall-bearers lifted the coffin and followed the solemn-faced vicar out into the graveyard. The fog gave an eerie feel to the proceedings and Flora thought the mourners looked as if they were floating between the drunkenly leaning gravestones. By this stage, Connie was gripping her hand so tightly that it was all Flora could do to stop herself from crying out. And then at last the coffin was lowered into the gaping grave, the final prayers were conducted and it was all over.
A Maiden's Voyage Page 2
