I got back out of bed and took the letter and opened up the lid of the stove and popped it in, watching it melt and burn and disintegrate in the orange glow.
Then I took out my pen and paper and wrote a very short note saying that I was in London and I hoped everyone was well and I was sorry for running away. I tucked it into the manilla envelope and in the morning, after Tubular had left, I put my coat on and walked to the post office. When I pushed the letter through the red pillar box, I noticed something. I had not looked for Oliver on the whole walk there. The letter and thinking about my family had distracted me.
I wanted to go home.
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MOLLY
Drogheda, Ireland, 1900
He had grown into a fine young man. I couldn’t help but admire his strong jaw and kind mouth, the way he came out from behind the counter and stood close, listening to what the customer had to say. I’d listen from the back office, hearing how he held the conversation, placing the materials into the gentlemen’s hands, never seeming like he was selling, but instead, helping.
I learned a lot from him, my brother Michael. Mr McKenna had shown him everything, he knew the shop inside out. I couldn’t run the business without him. We’d customers come in from all parts, gentlemen pulling their fine carriages up outside. As our trade grew, our stock increased and we started importing materials and ready-made designs from London and Paris.
I smiled sometimes when I thought of it. Michael and I had turned the shop into something Mr McKenna had always wanted it to be. But he would never see it. The changes we’d made. The boost in profits. The gentlemen we attracted.
The idea had come to me not long after Mam had died. I peered at the pages the solicitor handed me, the bonds, the statements from the bank. Mr McKenna had saved it all and it had gone to Mam and now it had come to me. If we sold the shop we’d have enough money, my brothers and I, to buy a small cottage each. But I thought about it, as I pined for Mam, as I realised that all three of us were alone in the world now. The gentlemen in London - the fashion, the money they spent each season on their turnout. I’d seen it with my own eyes. If we invested in the shop, if we followed some of that style - we would attract in the money. And then we would have a solid income and could look to buy whatever we wanted, in the future, when we were older. Michael agreed, outright, he’d spent all his time in the shop anyway and was coming to the end of his apprenticeship. Patrick wanted to leave, to see the world, he said. So I gave him some of his share and he joined the merchant navy and we’d gotten two postcards from him since. I wondered if he’d ever return to us, to come back and see what we were building.
At the same time as we gutted the shop, tearing up the old, dusty floorboards and pulling off the peeling wallpaper, as we installed dark panelling along the wall and ordered new rails to hang the ready-made clothes we were buying in, we took the grey house apart, laying down a carpet runner on the stairs, pasting coloured wallpaper on the walls and adding new rugs to cover cold, bare floorboards. I placed ornate blue and white vases in the sitting room and made cushions and dried flower arrangements for every nook and cranny of the house. It was an homage to my mother, a reminder of what we had lost and what she could have had.
I ordered the men to demolish Mr McKenna’s shed, to hit it with sledgehammers till it came crashing down in chunks and I watched them knock every bit of it, the dust flying at my eyes, arms folded, a hot feeling going through me. When they were finished, I went over to the rubble and pulled a splintered piece of wood from it and put it in my apron pocket as a reminder, a memento. The shed had been the start of Oliver and the end of the girl I’d been.
‘A fine tweed, Mr Rankin.’
I can hear Michael admiring the man in his tweed, even though it’s summer and we’ve had a week of sweltering heat. Mr Rankin mutters something back, something inaudible. The shop bell rings and I hold my text book, one of the journals I ordered in as part of my study, waiting to see if I’ll be needed. Boyce, our tailor, is across town on an errand. He likes to get out once a day, marching like a soldier, coming back red-cheeked and refreshed. Sometimes the customers don’t like to be served, or even greeted, by a woman, and they’ll wait, tapping their foot until Michael or Boyce are free.
I listen to the greeting, seeing if I need to go out. Michael is talking with the new customer and I listen to the replies. Curt. Clipped. An upper-class gentleman.
The door is ajar and I lean back to peer out, past the rails, searching for Michael and the new customer. And there, standing in his top hat, in his leather gloves, in his riding gear, is Henry Brabazon. I feel the breath leave my body.
Without thinking, I pull the door wide and walk out, straight up to him, cool as I can.
‘Miss Thomas?’ he says, watching me approach. Still in his memory then, he hasn’t forgotten my name. I never used the name Cotton in Ireland. I was Molly Thomas ever since the day I landed back.
‘How nice to see you,’ I say. And it was nice to see him. He seemed more handsome since the last time I had watched him, from behind a corner in one of the busiest kip-houses in London.
‘Now I remember,’ he says.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
‘You told me before, your step-father is the proprietor.’ He waves his hand at the shop, a sweeping movement, his black leather glove fanning the air.
‘He was,’ I say. ‘He’s deceased. I am the proprietor now.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
There’s no loss, I wanted to say.
‘Thank you. What can I assist you with today?’
I could see Michael watching - realising who the customer is.
‘I need a new hat.’
I bring him over to our hat display, an array of trilbys and top hats and some straw hats ready for the upcoming regatta.
‘I’ve not seen you for some time,’ he says.
‘I went to London,’ I say and I wait to see if he flinches. Could he have seen me that day and he’s hiding what he knows about me? Is he here because he’s heard I am back – is he here … to arrest me?
I realise that this is the moment I have waiting for. If he makes any sort of acknowledgment that he’d come to London to find me - if he indicates with a glance or a smirk or a hand on my arm that he alone knows I had the motive, the power and presence to do what was done to Flann Montgomery on that day, then my time is up.
‘I was in London, too,’ he says. He looks pleasant. Smiling even. ‘Did you like it?’
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘I did. But I needed to come home. When my mother got sick.’
His demeanour has not changed.
I don’t think he suspects me.
‘Oh’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. Did she ...’
And he leaves it hanging. I’m the proprietor of the shop.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Three years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. The second time in only a minute.
All that time I’d run away, wondering if I could ever come home again. And when I had come home, nothing had been said and now I was here, with Henry Brabazon, the only man who had seen me in the area that day, that fateful murderous day and he is smiling at me.
‘Do you see anything you like?’ I say and point to the hat display.
‘Straw,’ he says. ‘I’m attending the regatta. Haven’t been in a few years. I had one, but Lord knows where it went. Probably tucked at the back of an auctioned wardrobe!’
The auction had taken place the year before. I had read the notice in the paper and read it out to Michael in a tone of smug happiness.
‘Got what they deserved, those Brabazons,’ he had answered.
But now that Henry Brabazon stood in front of me, with his genuine eyes, clasping at his riding gloves, I felt almost sorry for him.
‘The auction must have been hard,’ I say.
‘These are the times we live in,’ he smiles.
/> ‘Did Dowth sell?’ I ask. I wasn’t sure what had become of our homestead or the lands around it, or my beautiful, ancient mound. I’d barely been back to it since I’d come home to Ireland - I was too scared to head out in that direction, mostly in fear of meeting Henry. But now he was here in my shop. We had met anyway.
‘That’s still ours,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t let it go.’
I realise that I’m in a very different position since the last time we spoke. Then, I had been only a girl, the daughter of a tenant, a farm hand turned shop girl who knew nothing of the ways of the world. Now, I could address him with confidence. I was a business woman. Standing in my very own shop.
I lift a hat from the display we had taken in for the regatta. Boyce had found a toy boat from somewhere and had set it up on a table, with the hats around it. Brabazon sits the hat on his head and looks in the free-standing mirror.
‘A bit big,’ he says and hands it back to me for another.
‘Are you looking forward to the regatta?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘As I said, I haven’t been for a few years. There’s been too much to attend to.’
‘We’re sponsoring a race,’ I say. We had kept up Mr McKenna’s tradition as a good showcase for the shop.
‘I’m hoping to sponsor too,’ he says. ‘Maybe next year.’
‘Aren’t you taking part in the rowing?’ I ask. I remember him in his white shirt, neck open, a tan across his face and triangled under his chin.
‘Oh no, I haven’t been training. There’s been too much happening. Maybe next year too,’ he says.
The third hat he tries, slides down on his head and sits in just the right place. He cocks his face at me and smiles.
‘What do you think?’ he says.
‘A perfect fit,’ I say. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
He looks about the shop, his eyes darting among the jackets and waistcoats on display.
‘Do you know, I think I could do with a new dicky bow?’
I take him to the counter where a display of cravats and dicky bows are facing up under a glass top. I take the boxes out and watch as he goes through them, taking his time, lingering.
He stops his finger on a purple bow, one with ridged satin.
‘This one,’ he says. ‘I’ll take this.’
‘The colour of royalty,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘King of these parts.’
I go to laugh but when I look up, he’s looking straight at me, no smile on his face at all.
‘Miss Thomas, would you care to join me at the regatta? I’d be delighted if you would accompany me?’
I see Michael out of the corner of my eye, his head lifting and turning over his shoulder to look.
I look back down at the dicky bows, tracing the pretty material with my eyes.
‘Yes,’ I say, joining his gaze again, ‘Yes, I would like that.’
He smiles, showing a set of white teeth and I notice that there is a crease on one side of his face under his beard.
‘Marvellous,’ he says. ‘Write down your address and I’ll send my carriage for you. We’re having a soiree later that evening, it will be fun.’
I would be hobnobbing with gentry. I would be moving with people with fine tastes and fine accents and graces and ladies who had never worked a day in their whole lives.
Let them, I thought.
I have money now, too.
I hoped Daddy wouldn’t mind.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
HENRY
Henry couldn’t keep the smile from breaking across his lips. He felt a warmth move through his body. There was something about that girl. Something that made his mind sing.
It was a different feeling he noted, to the lust he had held for Amelia Aherne. With Miss Thomas, there was something more - a grounding, an understanding almost. It was tangible, he thought. He watched the trees go sailing by outside the window of his carriage. They looked fresh, in full bloom, growing fat with the leaves uncurling in the June sun. He hadn’t noticed how summer had arrived all around him.
Rolling up the avenue to Brabazon House, Henry felt a stab of pride as he looked at the fountain, which was now clean, filled, and spraying a neat fan arc in the centre. The gardens had been groomed too, not back to their former glory, but they’d been shorn neatly and the gravel at the front of the house had been raked over.
He was getting back on top of things. Tonight was the first time they were having guests stay and be entertained since the massive land sale that had reduced their land stock to almost nothing. The decision to hold the auction to sell off possessions in the house - furniture and paintings handed down through the generations - had brought Mrs Johansson to tears, but Henry stayed firm.
‘Less to clean,’ he said cheerily as men in brown coats staggered under the weight of a walnut armoire.
Arthur had left for Dublin, unable to stay and watch his home disappear in parts before his eyes. Henry had been relieved, the tension between them now something less he had to worry about. He knew that his brother was gambling, sometimes winning and living like a king for weeks, at other times flitting from one town house to another, drinking, living off the family name and reputation.
‘Brother!’
Arthur got up off the low sofa where he was seated, unfurling an arm from around a beautiful, young woman with brown ringlets piled high on her head.
‘You’re back,’ said Henry and they embraced. ‘I wasn’t sure if we’d see you at all.’
‘Oh, we should have been here yesterday,’ said Arthur. ‘But last night, golly, Henry, the card game, couldn’t leave, haven’t even been to bed.’
Henry noticed the red rims around Arthur’s eyes now. He was bloated in the face, but still, the same cheeky Arthur.
‘And this is ...’ said Henry, gesturing to the woman still seated.
‘Oh, Miss Chatham. Henrietta.’
‘Henrietta,’ said Henry, reaching for the woman’s hand and kissing it. ‘A very beautiful name indeed. I would call you Henri for short but it might get confusing.’
She giggled and looked demure. Henry wondered how long she’d been tagging along with Arthur.
‘The house is looking well,’ said Arthur. His voice was genuine, Henry could hear the apologetic note in it. It had been almost a year since they’d seen each other.
‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘I think we may have turned a corner.’
‘Well then, let’s celebrate,’ said Arthur, striding over to the drinks cabinet which had been fully stocked ahead of tonight’s soiree. He set about pouring shorts into three glasses and muttering about ice.
Henry looked at Miss Chatham and noticed the curve of her lips and gentle chin. She was very pretty, exactly Arthur’s type. He thought of Miss Thomas, how she had a strong chin, a definite mouth. And how she would be here, in this very room, this evening.
Arthur brought the drinks on a tray and offered a glass to Miss Chatham and then Henry.
‘To Brabazon,’ toasted Arthur. ‘To misfortunes allayed. To my brother. And to love.’
He pointed his glass at Miss Chatham, who giggled and took a long sip from hers.
‘To love,’ said Henry, feeling the liquid warm the back of his throat and sink past his windpipe to his stomach.
He was so looking forward to this evening. The first time in a long time that he could remember looking forward to anything at all.
* * *
Who is she?
A shop girl?
Doesn’t he look pleased with himself?
He knew they were being watched. He felt the eyes bore into his back, caught the glances as the ladies huddled and whispered behind gloved hands.
They were standing in the tea tent, sheltering from the summer showers being thrown down on the river and its banks, muting the regatta crowd as they ran for cover. She was wearing a modern dress, one that reminded him of London. It was less extravagant than the other ladies’ attire; a smaller bustle, her shape
almost revealed instead of being hidden under a large circle of skirt.
‘Don’t you wish you were out there?’ she asked. ‘On the water?’
She was staying by his side, smiling, holding conversation. She had a confidence about her that was far removed from the coquettish smirks and laughter he was used to. She had something to say for herself. He was fascinated by her.
‘In part,’ he said. ‘But then if I was out there, I wouldn’t be here enjoying your company, would I?’
She laughed and told him he was funny.
He laughed too. People always said Arthur was funny.
He offered her a small glass of white wine and she took it firmly in her hand and sipped it.
He glanced across at the two ladies who were staring at them, their hands arched in whispered conversation. Let them talk. He wanted to show Miss Thomas off to the whole world.
Miss Chatham, Arthur’s guest, was standing beside the whispering women looking lost. Arthur had appeared in the arena for a short while, and then disappeared quietly. Henry suspected he could be found propped up a in snug in a pub across the river. He beckoned to Henrietta, calling her over and she caught his glance and smiled gratefully.
‘Have you been abandoned?’ asked Henry, when Miss Chatham joined them, the two whispering ladies following in hot pursuit.
‘It seems so,’ she said, her soft eyelashes fluttering.
‘This is Miss Thomas,’ he said, introducing Molly to the approaching ladies who reached out their hands in greeting.
‘And you’re a proprietor?’ asked the younger woman, blond curls carefully placed around her face. She’d bustled forward to take a closer look.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A shop I inherited. But soon I’ll be opening a women’s drapery. You must stop by and see our stock.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the woman. ‘I will. I must say, I do admire the dress you’re wearing. It’s very... fresh.’
‘Isn’t she a wonder?’ Henry said to the women, who nodded and laughed. ‘A business woman, no less.’
‘And a former tenant.’
The other woman who spoke was beautiful, her eyes flashing, dangerously.
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