by Rose Meddon
Taking a step to the side – so that Miss Naomi could no longer see her reflected in the mirror – Kate hesitated. By no stretch of the imagination was she the best person to offer advice on sweet-hearting, her own situation having lately fallen into complete disarray. And that was without all the rules and considerations for a young woman from a family like the Russells. So yes, what did she know of these things?
She glanced to the night-table and Miss Naomi’s travel clock: five-and-twenty minutes after two. The appointment with the milliner was at three. And, as yet, neither of them was anywhere near ready to leave.
‘What I suppose I mean,’ she ventured, ‘is that this afternoon’s little meeting is supposed to let you find out whether he’s the person you think he is. And whether you would like to get to know him proper – or even, at all. That being the case, you’d want him to be himself, wouldn’t you? His normal, everyday self, I mean – not the sort of polished-up, best-behaviour self you’d get at a dinner or some such.’
‘That’s true,’ Naomi said, turning to look over her shoulder at her.
‘So, you should be the same? Shouldn’t you be your ordinary self?’
‘You really think this dress won’t make me look too dull?’
With another glance to the clock, Kate shook her head. ‘No, miss. If we pin one of your silk flowers to your straw hat—’
‘The little sprig of lilac blossom, that one, did you mean?’
In a single movement, Kate turned to the chest and pulled back the top drawer. ‘That’s the one. And if you wear these lace gloves and carry your parasol—’
‘Yes…’
‘And maybe that nice pearl brooch of yours—’ Quickly, Kate gathered the various items and fixed or fastened them to Naomi’s outfit. Then, panting lightly, she stood back. ‘Just right, don’t you think?’ Thankful when Miss Naomi nodded her approval, Kate went to the wardrobe and, glancing along the rows of Miss Naomi’s shoes, selected the beige pair with the twin straps. ‘And these. You remarked the other day upon how comfortable they are to wear – and you might need to cover quite a distance on foot.’
Without question, Naomi slipped her feet into the shoes. ‘Well done. For someone with no training in this sort of thing, you’ve turned out to be very good at it. But then I knew as much when I saw your hair that first day. There’s a girl who takes pride in how she looks, I said to myself. And you haven’t proved me wrong. In fact, I would go as far as to say that we have surprisingly similar tastes.’
Having buckled the straps of Miss Naomi’s shoes, Kate shot upright, galvanized into saying, ‘Then if you’re all set for the moment, might I be excused to go and freshen up before we go? Only—’
‘Good Lord, yes. How selfish of me not to think of that! Please, do run along. I was going to suggest that you might like to change out of your uniform but, were someone to see you, I suppose it might raise suspicions.’
‘Yes, miss, I suppose it might.’ Damnation. She’d been hoping to shed these dowdy garments in favour of her Sunday best. Oh well, she could still tidy her hair and trim her straw hat. In which case, she thought, glancing again to the time, there wasn’t a moment to lose.
* * *
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
The two young women had been at the milliners for almost an hour, Mrs Nancy Giffard, the proprietress, ferrying hats of all descriptions, Naomi Russell turning this way and that to study her reflection in the over-sized triple mirror as she tried them on. To Kate’s ears, Miss Naomi sounded weary, her mind not on the matter of hats at all. Given the circumstances, she supposed it was hardly surprising.
‘Does madam have a particular occasion in mind?’ Mrs Giffard enquired, her voice striking Kate as matching Miss Naomi’s for apathy.
‘Not as such. As I said to you earlier, the hat is to be a gift from my aunt.’
Seated on a hardback chair in the corner of the room, Kate stifled a yawn. If Miss Naomi didn’t get on with it, Mr Lawrence and Mr Edwin could easily grow tired of wandering around Westward Quay and go home. And she would hardly blame them.
‘If I may say something, miss,’ she said, rising from the chair, and crossing the couple of steps to where Naomi Russell was fingering an outlandish turquoise creation of gauze and feathers. ‘I thought the first one you tried on most fetching.’
Absently, Naomi Russell looked back at her. ‘That little one?’
‘Yes, miss. That soft pink colour would be most…’ she hesitated. She had been on the point of calling it serviceable. But serviceable headwear was for people who could only afford a single hat – hardly a description to win over someone who already had a dozen or more. So, what would convince Miss Naomi to look at it again? Useful was hardly compelling, wearable no better. ‘Flattering. It would look most flattering on you.’ Going across to the counter, she removed it from its stand and held it out, aware that Mrs Giffard was eyeing her with mistrust.
‘Flattering, you say? Hmm.’
At Kate’s involvement, Mrs Giffard’s expression changed to a glower. Well, she could glower all she liked. On this occasion, Miss Naomi needed shepherding towards a decision – and quickly.
‘Yes, miss. Knowing your wardrobe as I do, this pretty colour would suit a number of your outfits… and its neat little shape could be made to sit very nicely in your hair.’
‘Hmm.’
Oh, dear Lord, do come on. It’s only a hat. And a hat you don’t even need, at that!
‘Just enough of a brim to shade your face but not so much as to lift in the breeze.’
‘It is rather breezy down here, isn’t it?’ Naomi Russell remarked as though noticing for the first time.
‘It’s being on the coast that makes it so, madam. Many of my ladies like to keep their hats small for that very reason.’
Finally, Kate thought, a helpful contribution from Mrs Giffard. For someone with a good many hats to sell, thus far she had been rather slow in making a case for any of them.
‘I’ll take it.’
‘You don’t wish to try it on again, madam?’
‘No, no need, thank you.’ At this sudden decisiveness from Miss Naomi, Kate’s eyes widened. Was that it? Were they done? ‘Please box it up for me and I’ll send someone to collect it. I’m afraid I’m running late for another appointment.’
‘As you wish, madam.’
With that, Naomi Russell turned briskly about. ‘Come along, Kate. I’ve just seen the time. We’ve not a moment to spare.’ Striding in unlikely fashion across the little shop, Naomi Russell arrived at the door well ahead of Mrs Giffard, where, to the tinkling of the bell, she stepped briskly out onto the pavement. When, trailing in her wake, Kate caught up to her, she added, ‘I had no idea it was so late. Why didn’t you say something? Look, there they are, coming along that harbour wall.’
Kate turned her head. ‘The mole, miss. We call it the mole.’
‘Mole? How ridiculous. Anyway, Ned appears to have seen us. So, which way do we head for this tea-room?’
To Kate, Miss Naomi’s sudden purpose was unsettling. It reminded her of the day of the Russells’ arrival, when she had stood in the hallway, inspecting her suitability as a lady’s maid. Determined. Not to be crossed.
‘Further along here, miss. It’s the building with the bow-window next to the Custom House.’
‘I see it. Don’t walk too quickly then – we need to afford them the chance to catch up.’
‘Yes, miss.’
That particular afternoon, the town’s narrow and uneven pavements were teeming with holiday-makers. In light summer shirts and straw hats, the men all looked red-faced, the women, sticky and short-tempered, their children either whining for ices or already letting them melt down their hands and onto their clothing. To avoid a particularly broad gaggle of them, Kate stepped down into the gutter and, once on the cobbled roadway, skipped a pace to catch up.
‘Are they still behind us?’ Naomi glanced down at her to ask.
When the crowd on the p
avement thinned a little, Kate risked a glance over her shoulder. ‘I can’t say for certain without making it too obvious that I’m looking,’ she said. But then, noticing that they were less than fifty yards from the tea-room, she added, ‘Let’s stop and look in this window for a moment.’
Naomi Russell surveyed the shopfront in question, its window stuffed with knick-knacks, most of them inscribed – fittingly or otherwise – with the word Devon. ‘But it’s a souvenir shop,’ she said.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Why would I be looking in a souvenir shop?’
‘It’s only for a minute,’ Kate replied. ‘You don’t really have to look.’ Over the last few days, she’d forgotten how rapidly Miss Naomi could become displeased or irritated. Perhaps, this afternoon, her tetchiness had been brought on by nerves; she certainly felt apprehensive herself – and Miss Naomi’s grouchiness was doing nothing to help. ‘But we don’t want to arrive at the tea room without them.’
‘Min! I say, Min, I thought it was you!’
Thank goodness. Wearing almost identical cream linen suits, with colourful cravats at their necks and straw boaters in their hands, Mr Edwin and Mr Lawrence looked very… London. Mr Edwin in particular, with a new touch of summer colour to his face, looked healthy and relaxed.
‘Ned! Lawrence!’ Naomi remarked, to Kate’s ears, her attempt at feigning astonishment surprisingly passable. ‘What are you two doing here? And how odd you should be here at the same time as us.’
Now, though, she had overdone it: did she know nothing about subterfuge? To most people’s reckoning, to draw attention to the coincidence of a situation was to immediately render it suspicious.
‘Miss Russell,’ Lawrence Colborne acknowledged Naomi with a polite nod.
‘Lawrence, this is Kate, my lady’s maid. She’s been helping me to choose a hat. Kate, this is Mr Lawrence Colborne.’
Having stepped back from the gathering, Kate smiled in Mr Lawrence’s direction. For some reason, though, she couldn’t bring herself to face Mr Edwin.
‘Was she dreadfully bad at choosing?’ he nevertheless leaned towards her to enquire.
Bother. Now she had to look at him, ready or not. Mischievous, that was the nature of the expression she gleaned from her quick glance to his face. ‘Not too bad, no,’ she answered him.
‘Kate and I were minded to partake of some refreshments,’ Naomi announced, to Kate’s mind, rather too eagerly. ‘She tells me there’s a tea room along here. I say, you could join us – if you’d like to, that is.’
How suddenly all the sweetness had returned to Miss Naomi’s manner, Kate noted, flushing, and directing her eyes to the pavement.
Above her head she heard Mr Lawrence reply. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘I should say. I’m starving!’
At Ned’s response, Kate had to smile; Miss Naomi had predicted he would say just that. But, being twins, they must almost be able to read each other’s minds.
‘Shall we, then?’
‘Yes, let’s.’
‘Kate, be a dear and remind me where it is.’
At Miss Naomi’s command, Kate nodded. Her throat felt dry and her palms tacky. And, despite having been able to think of little else for the last couple of days, she suddenly felt sick with panic. What on earth could have possessed her to think that she could take tea with gentry? How on earth had she not worked out before now that it was bound to end badly?
Sensing that Miss Naomi was waiting upon her response – and recognizing that it was too late now anyway – she gestured somewhat stiffly with her arm. ‘Just along here,’ she mumbled.
‘Then please, do lead the way.’
When they stepped inside the tea room, it was to the chinking of porcelain and the humming of conversations. Waitresses moved noiselessly between square tables at which were seated ladies in cloche hats and sprig-printed dresses. To Kate’s horror, though, not a single table was free. Of all the misfortune…
‘Heavens,’ Naomi whispered in her ear. ‘Just our luck to find it full.’
‘By the look of things,’ Ned observed generally, ‘the party at that table in the corner have just requested their bill.’ And then, to his sister, he added, ‘I’ll go and see whether I can speak for it.’
Before long, the foursome was being seated at the corner table, Kate somehow having the presence of mind to side-step Miss Naomi so that she might end up seated next to Mr Lawrence.
Settling into their places, she took the chance to study their surroundings. The large room was much as she would have imagined it from the outside: well-worn floorboards, polished to a shine; beamed ceiling – badly stained above the fireplace and so low as to force any man taller than Mr Lawrence to stoop; dark wheel-back chairs at tables with gingham cloths and, upon them, bud vases containing single pink carnations. The other customers, she noted, were mainly older and rounder, the tips of their noses pink from the sunshine – matronly types, for the most part, tidily dressed and of the genteel class for whom taking tea with friends was a regular occurrence. None of them were housemaids, of that she was certain.
‘Since we’re in Devon,’ Lawrence announced, bringing Kate’s attention back to their own table, ‘might I suggest cream teas all round – my treat.’
Next to him, Naomi Russell was peeling off her lace gloves. ‘That sounds lovely. Thank you, Lawrence.’
Entirely unaware of the etiquette in such instances, Kate settled for nodding. While they had been waiting to be seated, she’d seen a cake stand being delivered to one of the tables by the door. On the lower tier had been tiny sandwiches and soft rolls with interesting looking fillings. Above those had been scones and, on the top-most tier, miniature iced-fancies. She’d been hoping for something like that. But never mind; eating wasn’t the reason they were there.
When their waitress arrived – a young woman with a long plait hanging down her back, whose elder sister, Kate felt certain she had been at school with – she was bearing a tray of bone china that rattled alarmingly as she proceeded to set it down on the table. Noticing that it was the same Aynsley pattern as the tea service they had in the dining room at Woodicombe, she smiled.
Moments later, their waitress returned with two tea plates, each bearing two modestly-sized fruit scones. She then brought two little wooden platters – to Kate, like miniature chopping boards – onto each of which she placed two tiny china pots: one of jam, the other of clotted cream. Setting them nervously in front of Naomi and Kate, the waitress disappeared to return moments later with the same for Lawrence and Ned.
‘If you can’t eat both of yours,’ Ned said to his sister, ‘I shan’t mind helping you out.’
Kate tried to smile. Unfortunately, she had become terrified of putting a foot wrong – or rather, a knife or a spoon – and looking like a country bumpkin.
Her head lowered – apparently in admiration of her tea – she watched Naomi use her fingers to twist apart one of her scones and replace the two halves side by side on her plate. Grateful to have observed such a thing, she carefully set her knife back beside her plate, picked up a scone and followed suit. Then, just as Naomi was doing, she spooned a small amount of cream, spread it with her knife onto just a corner of her halved scone, and topped it with a modest dollop of jam. And then she stared at it. Good grief, this was unnerving. Who would have imagined that eating something as humble as a scone could, in polite circles, be so fraught? But then it was widely held that the King ate peaches with a knife and fork. Anyway, she reassured herself, trying not to giggle, she seemed to have the measure of it now, with which she finally raised the scone to her mouth and took a bite. It wasn’t as large a bite as she would have liked but she was in the company of gentry: seated to either side of her were Mr Lawrence and Mr Edwin. Just wait until she told… but no, she could tell no one. As much as she would love to tell Edith, she couldn’t breathe a word to a soul; Miss Naomi trusted her – she had said as much the other day. And then there was her position as her lady’s ma
id to consider, not to mention the fact that Ma would have a fit if she found out. She could imagine her now, her stare icy and her movements clipped. And that was before she considered her voice, raised just enough to convey her complete dismay.
‘Are you not terribly hungry?’
The question was whispered so softly and in such conspiratorial tones that at first, Kate imagined it not to exist outside of her head.
‘I seem not to be,’ she replied equally softly, realizing that the enquiry had come from Mr Edwin.
‘You know, I think the scones at Woodicombe are better,’ he whispered.
She smiled politely. ‘I shall make sure an’ tell my sister.’
‘I also prefer mine properly cold so they don’t go soggy under the cream.’
‘Me too,’ she said, casting her eyes quickly towards Miss Naomi. She, though, had her attention firmly on whatever Mr Lawrence was saying. ‘Though they mightn’t be warm on purpose,’ she continued as the thought struck her.
‘No?’
‘They might have been only just this minute pulled from the oven, especially given how busy it is in here.’
Watching him glance about, she realized she’d never been within a hair’s breadth of a gentleman before – at least, not in broad daylight, and certainly not to one so similar to her in age.
‘You might be right,’ he said. ‘The jam’s jolly good, though. And it’s hard ever to find fault with clotted cream.’
Taking care to keep her lips pressed together, she smiled and then forced down her mouthful. ‘Yes. I could eat it every day. And not just on scones, either.’
‘On baked apples?’
‘Blackberry and apple crumble.’
‘Ra-ther. And, of course, on strawberries.’
‘Or raspberries,’ she said.
‘Never thought of that.’
‘But they’re perfect together.’
‘I’m sure they are.’
Momentarily stuck for anything else with which to pair clotted cream, she gave a little sigh. Seen this close-to, it was surprising just how faithfully his features resembled those of his sister. Eyes, nose, chin – all looked familiar to her. That being the case, how had it taken so long for her to notice? And to notice also that he was actually quite handsome?