A hearty round of applause as well to Annie Tipton, the awesome editor who took a chance on me in the first place.
And last but definitely not least, much gratitude to my hero husband, Mark, who also happens to be my true BFF.
The Old Lace Shop
September
CHAPTER ONE
Bella
London, 1855
I have long abhorred black. It is a great abyss, sucking in the colours of the rainbow and wringing the life from them. The moniker of death. Nonetheless, I brave the darkness one last time to retrieve something precious. Plunging my hand past heavy gowns of the offensive colour, I rummage deep in the chest. Near the bottom, my fingers bump into a velvet box. Victory! Gripping it, I pull it out, and my throat goes dry. What I am about to do is as rebellious as Jezebel herself.
Inside, my mother’s single pearl attached to a silver chain rests on indigo satin. My hand trembles as I remove the keepsake and fasten it around my neck. Shortly after I married, on my very first Christmas as a young bride, Mr. White forbade me to wear my mother’s necklace, saying it didn’t befit a woman of my elevated station. Fingering the pearl, I relish its coolness, and defiance wells. This year I will celebrate Christmas with holly and laughter and a large stuffed goose instead of dark looks and criticism. Too many years have I spent shut away in a stagnant town house without a morsel of cheer. No more. Today I’m free, finally and completely my own person, leastwise once I sign all the paperwork.
I toss the empty case back into the chest and slam the lid; then I rise—and a genuine smile curves my lips. Is it wicked to embrace such elation? Then so be it. Never again will I cower before a man—a promise to myself and to God.
“Mrs. White?” Betty raps at my chamber door and ducks inside. Her bleached apron is stark against her black servant’s gown, and my smile fades. How much would it cost to reissue the staff with pewter-grey liveries instead? Yet another matter to take up with the solicitor when he arrives in an hour.
“Yes, Betty?” I soften my tone. Harsh words make her flinch even now, though it’s been a year since my husband raged about the town house.
“My pardon for disturbing you, mum”—she dips her head—“but a Mr. Barlow is here, awaiting you in the sitting room.”
“Barlow?” I roll the name around with my tongue and find it a completely foreign flavour. “Who is that?”
The ruffle on Betty’s cap trembles where it meets her brow. “Says he’s with Smudge and Gruber, mum.”
I glance at the clock ticking away on the mantel. Fifty-six minutes remain until I expect Mr. Smudge. A shadow clouds my mind, as dark as the mourning gowns I’ve laid to rest. Was this Mr. Barlow here with ill tidings? Frowning, I thank Betty and leave my chamber.
Memories bombard me like thrown tomatoes as I scurry down the corridor. There, where the September sun shines through the windowpanes, my husband threatened to push me out the glass. I speed past the vigil lantern that carved a small scar into my neck when he’d swung it at me. And at the top of the stairs, I press my hand to my stomach. How many times had Mr. White said he ought to shove me down the stairway and be done with me?
Ghosts. All ghosts. My husband is well and truly gone. I descend the stairs, hopefully for one of the last times. I cannot leave soon enough this house of horror.
A thick man, hardly taller than I, stands looking out through the sheers at Wellington Street, either enthralled by the day’s traffic or lost in thought. I clear my throat. When he turns, sunlight bounces off his spectacles.
“Good day, Mrs. White.” He bows his head. “Mr. Percival Barlow, clerk to Mr. Gruber, at your service.”
I study his dark hair and somewhat pasty skin, but neither the name nor the face correlate with any memory I can dredge up. I take a seat on the settee and direct him to an adjacent chair. “To what do I owe this visit, Mr. Barlow?”
He settles a leather brief-bag on his lap and unbuckles the straps while he speaks. “Normally I make the rounds for Mr. Gruber. Unlike Mr. Smudge, he rarely leaves the office. However, today I took it upon myself to add Mr. Smudge’s clients to my stops as well.” He pulls out a sheaf of papers then lifts his face to me. “I regret to inform you your lawyer, Mr. Smudge, took a fall from a horse yesterday and broke his leg. In short, I am here to get your signature on the documents he intended for you to sign.”
He hands over the papers, and I page through them. Strange how a lifetime of ambition can be condensed into nothing more than a stack of parchment.
Mr. Barlow offers me a pen. “Each document represents one of your deceased husband’s holdings. Sign your name on the bottom lines and the businesses will be sold, the proceeds of which shall come to you.”
Surely Mr. White is rolling over in his grave as I write my name on the first page, selling off a dry goods warehouse in Birmingham. He’d married me, a girl five decades his junior, in order to avoid the travesty of dying without an heir—and made me pay with each passing year in which I didn’t give him a son.
“You should be very well-off for the rest of your days, Mrs. White.” Mr. Barlow’s low voice drowns out the scratching of my pen. “I daresay you shall be able to do whatever it is you fancy.”
His words slam into me, and my pen hovers above the line on the last page. Whatever I fancy? La! The only fancy I’d clung to the past year was the hope of leaving behind this town house and settling elsewhere, far from London. Escaping the past. Starting a whole new chapter of life. But what? And where? Flight had so preoccupied my mind that I’d neglected to give a thought as to where I’d land.
My gaze sharpens on the heading of the page in my lap. Nottingham Lace and Hose. Nottingham? Why not? It’s as good a place as any.
I set the pen on the tea table then hold out the unsigned paper to Mr. Barlow. “Tell me of this business, sir.”
His big eyes widen as he grasps the page between finger and thumb, and while he silently reads, his lips fold into a pout. “It appears this is a lace manufacturing company, one of your husband’s smaller holdings. His possession was at 51 percent, making him the majority owner but not by much. It says here”—he spears his finger midway down the document—“that once you’ve relinquished your allotment, the co-owner intends to purchase that share for sole proprietorship.”
Mr. Barlow shoves the paper back at me. “Not to worry, Mrs. White. There is nothing untoward about this paper. Simply sign it, and I shall be on my way.”
I finger my mother’s necklace, leaving the paper to dangle from Mr. Barlow’s fingers. “Tell me, sir, what happens if I do not sign that document?”
“Not sign?” His head recoils as if I’ve slapped him. “Why would you not? Surely you do not intend to pursue the majority ownership of some small, dismal manufacturing company in the middle of nowhere. For without your signature on this page, the holding falls to you—an unheard-of position for a woman.”
My fingers snap closed around the pearl, the small hairs at the back of my neck bristling. It may be a poor decision, but I’ve been told one too many times what to do, how to live, when to breathe and eat and walk. A scream wells in my throat, and I use its energy to lift my chin. “Yes, Mr. Barlow. That is exactly what I intend.”
His wide mouth parts then closes as if words have bunched up behind his teeth and he’s too afraid to let them loose. Finally he sinks back against the cushion. “Are you certain of this, Mrs. White? It’s a different world north of here, and manufacturing is a harsh and unforgiving trade. I fear a woman of your stature may not last long in such an environment.”
I stifle a smile. Let him oppose me. It only empowers me more. Because even if I suffer, this time it will be due to my choice. “I am certain, sir.”
His skin greys to the shade of yesterday’s porridge, and he fumbles inside his coat pocket to pull out a beat-up gold coin. He holds it out to me on an upturned palm.
I pluck the coin from his hand and hold it to the light streaming in through the window. I’ve never seen the lik
es of such. The edges are chipped and gouged. A raised X takes up the most of one side. Words I cannot read encircle the other. I angle my head at Mr. Barlow. “What is this?”
“It’s a second-chance coin, Mrs. White.” He pushes the paper for Nottingham Lace and Hose back at me across the tea table. “I should like to give you a second chance to reconsider your decision.”
I offer back the coin. “No need, sir. My mind is quite made up.”
He blows out a sigh, the kind that condemns me for being such a daft female, and rises to his feet, collecting all the papers save for the lace company. “Then I suppose I am finished here. I bid you good day, madam. And good luck.”
I rise as well, following. “But your coin, sir.”
Pausing on the threshold, he turns to me. “Keep it. I have a feeling you may need it, especially with your new business partner. I only wish I had third- and fourth-chance coins to give you as well.”
He pivots, and I am left alone with the piece of cold metal in my hand and a knotted bundle of hope and fear in my belly.
CHAPTER TWO
Bella
Travelling by train, while a novel experience, is a tiresome affair, especially when seated shoulder to shoulder in a car that smells of overcooked pork, sweat, and tobacco. As soon as the great wheels squeal to a stop at the Nottingham Midland Station, both Betty and I are on our feet, eager to get off.
Like ants emerging from an anthill, passengers scurry about the platform, hailing porters, grabbing baggage, greeting friends or family. I clutch my small bag with both hands as humanity swarms. But when Betty turns her brown eyes to me, overlarge and seeking leadership, I straighten my shoulders. I am, after all, a woman of responsibility now.
And besides that, I am running late thanks to a broken steam boiler.
I snap into action and flag down a porter, giving him my claim ticket for all of our baggage. Fishing about in my bag, I bypass the second-chance coin and pull out a crown. I hand it over to the fellow, along with instructions as to where to deliver our trunks.
“Yes, madam.” He dips his head with a crisp nod and darts back into the fray of travellers.
I glance at my ever-present companion and offer her a smile. “Ready, Betty?”
Apparently the starch has returned to her spine, for she lifts her chin. “Aye, mum. Let’s be off.”
Outside on Station Street, the late afternoon sun prods me to hail a hackney. I have no idea as to the layout of the city or how far the factory is. All I know is that the address I give the jarvey represents my future, for better or worse—though in all honesty I cannot imagine anything worse than the past eight years. I ask the driver to drop me off at Nottingham Lace and Hose then to continue on the few blocks farther to leave Betty at our rented rooms. I’d chosen the flat sight unseen for ease of commuting to and from the factory.
Tingles prickle along my arms as I climb into the cab. I have an occupation. Me. A woman who’s lived invisibly for twenty-seven years. Excitement jitters through me as tangibly as the lurch of the carriage. With God as my witness, I will succeed at this manufacturing endeavor, for I will give it my all or die in the trying. Who knows? Perhaps God handed me this opportunity as a second chance to start life over, freed from the oppressive shadow of men.
“Gaff, mum!” Betty’s voice is strangled. “Would ye look at that?”
I lean forward to peer toward the curb. My breath catches in my throat as the coach rattles past woman after woman. A few are standing, but most sit with their backs shored up against soot-coated brick walls. Some hold out cans and lift their voices to beg for pennies. Others are silent, their open hands cupped to collect any meager offerings dropped by passing pedestrians.
All of them stare into the distance, unseeing of the world around them, some with milky eyes, others not.
“They’re blind, Mrs. White.” Betty’s words fade to a whisper. “Every last blessed one o’ them.”
I sit back against the leather cushion, unable to make sense of it. Not that beggars aren’t common in London—but all women? And all without sight? What has caused such a surfeit of blindness?
The carriage heaves to the left as we careen around a corner, and I fling out my hand for balance. Though my heart aches for the nameless women so burdened by tragedy, I put them out of my mind. It will not do to greet my co-owner with a trembling handshake or unsettled thoughts. He likely isn’t happy about the prospect of working with me anyway—as Mr. Barlow made abundantly clear. So did Mr. Smudge’s letter I’d received this morning, pleading with me to reconsider, and I almost did when I learned the name of the man I’d be comanaging alongside. A Mr. Archer. Reading the name had pierced me like an arrow, but surely there were hundreds, if not thousands, of men in England bearing such a common surname.
The cab stops. I step out and pay the jarvey then swallow hard as the carriage rolls off, leaving me alone. The sun darts behind a cloud, and the building glowers at me like a scolding matron, telling me I don’t belong here. Coal smut blackens the bricks and coats the windows with a thick veil. For the space of a breath, I am tempted to run after the cab, jump in, and ask the driver to take Betty and me back to the station.
A woman passing by bumps into me. Her head dips low and her shoulders curl as if she carries the weight of dead dreams in a great bundle on her back. “Pardon,” she mumbles, before disappearing through an open, wrought-iron gate.
I stare after her. If I leave now, give over the business and rely on my deceased husband’s wealth, my own dream of living independently will bend my back every bit as much as that woman’s. Spending Mr. White’s money is not the same as earning my own—and I desperately need to be on my own for once in my life. So I straighten my bonnet and follow after the woman.
The gate leads into a large courtyard surrounded on three sides by buildings, all connected. A hulk of a dray stands next to a nearby dock where men load stacks of crates. Boys in flat caps dart about, running Lord knows what sort of errands. All ignore me. Not far from where I stand, a door swings shut, the drab hem of the woman’s gown vanishing inside. It might not be the main office door—but then again, it might. Worth a try.
Leaving behind the bustle of the yard, I enter an entirely new world—a world of endless noise. Even though the working floor cannot be seen from where I stand, the clank, bang, and ratchet of so many machines boxes my ears. I will hear the clatter of it long after my head hits the pillow this night.
And the air! A fine dusting of winter snow floats through it. No, not snow. Dust from yarn and thread, spinning and whirring and rubbing. It tickles the small space high up in my nose where not even a good sneeze would clear it.
Eager to escape both noise and dust, I find a thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles, who directs me to the office. I ascend the stairs. Not that it helps much. My elevated position deadens the noise only slightly and lessens the dust none. Both cease to matter when I spot a door marked with the name of Mr. Archer and my heart twists in an odd way. Nerves, no doubt, for the fellow will be none too pleased to discover I am here to comanage and not sell out. Or could it be that the name of Archer is branded onto my soul? I pause and close my eyes.
Oh, Lord, go before me.
It’s a ridiculous prayer. How many times had I pleaded the same when facing my former husband? I rub a scar behind my ear. But then again, maybe not so ridiculous, for I am here and he is not. Before I can change my mind, I rap my knuckles against the wood and step back, expecting a dark-suited mister with grey hair and a scowl to fling open the door.
It does not open.
I rap again. “Mr. Archer?”
No response.
My brow bunches, and I glance at the watch brooch pinned on my bodice. Half past four. Right on time. Hmm. Perhaps Mr. Archer has been called to the factory floor for some unexpected mishap. Stepping aside, I lean my back against the wall and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Now and then an office worker scuttles past, and th
ough I inquire after the master of the factory, no one seems to know where he is. For a while, I pace a small circle and entertain myself with grand imaginings of how I shall keep Christmas in a high fashion this coming season, planning a mouthwatering menu and mentally decorating rooms I’ve not even seen yet.
But the minutes drag on.
And on.
I frown. I cannot be the only one who’s had to suffer such an interminable delay in this cramped corridor. My first order of business shall have to be a suitable waiting room for occasions such as this.
By half past five, my feet pinch and my lower back aches. Has this Mr. Archer gotten wind of my sex and decided to prove some kind of point? A sigh rips out of me. Fine. If that’s the game he wants to play, I shall simply return first thing in the morning. Leaving the office behind, I turn to descend the stairs.
A black-suited man dashes upward, his long legs eating two stairs at a time. His agility catches me off guard. It makes sense, though, that my late husband would have chosen a younger man to manage in his stead. He’d not have wished to be rallied from London to attend matters here.
Near the landing, the man glances up. Blue eyes meet my gaze with all the intensity of a November sky. He freezes.
So do I. Hundreds of emotions wash over me, too many to name, as if a great, cold bucket of water has been upturned over my head. I gasp for air, and my reticule shakes in my death grip. The connection with my small purse is the only tangible thing buoying me in this dark void of uncharted sea. Because two breaths away from me stands Edmund Archer.
The only man I have ever loved.
CHAPTER THREE
Bella
If skeletons can smile, surely my late husband’s skull is unhinged at the jaw with an ear-to-ear grin at my mortification. What cruel hoax is this? Of all the Archers in the world, I am to partner with Edmund? The man who’d whispered intimate promises and kissed my lips until I was senseless, breathless, helpless?
3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 31