by Evie Grace
‘You’ve bin all of a flutter ever since you came back from seein’ Mr Noble,’ May said when they had finished clearing up and Joe was tucked up in his crib.
‘You’ve not said much about it,’ Eleanor said. ‘Did he make an arrangement to see you again?’
‘As a matter of fact, he did.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ May said.
‘Because I wanted to keep it to myself for a while. Anyway, to satisfy your curiosity, let me tell you that he’s asked me to a lecture at the museum.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ May said. ‘How dull. Where is the fun in that?’
‘I think it could be very interesting.’ Violet blushed.
‘Each to their own. I suppose you’re goin’ to want one of us to look after Joe?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘We do lead very busy lives – look at all our invitations lined up on the mantelpiece.’ Eleanor waved towards the fireplace. ‘Of course we’ll sit with Joe, won’t we, May?’
‘That depends on when it is. I ’ave an interesting engagement of my own.’
‘What is it?’ Violet asked.
‘Tom Ward – our landlord – ’as asked me to walk out with ‘im, and I said yes.’
‘The squeeze-crab?’ Violet laughed. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’
‘Let’s say ’e’s changed my mind. He isn’t so bad when you get to know ’im, and although ’e looks old and bent almost in two, ‘e’s got a twinkle in ’is eye and a bit of money in his pocket.’
‘I’m feeling a little left out here. It looks as if it will be just me and Joe,’ Eleanor said, walking over to him and picking him up.
‘Joe, be nimble. Joe, be quick.’ She carried him in her arms. ‘Joe jumps over the candlestick. Joe jumps high, Joe jumps low, Joe jumps ooooover …’ she made him soar then dip ‘… and burns his toe.’
Joe couldn’t stop chuckling.
‘It’s good luck to jump over a candlestick without puttin’ out the flame,’ May said.
‘And highly dangerous,’ Violet observed. ‘Let’s not try it. I don’t think our landlord—’
‘May’s fancy man,’ Eleanor interrupted with a giggle.
‘I don’t think he’d be too happy to see us burn the place down,’ Violet went on. ‘We need this workshop – we’ll be starting on Miss Whiteway’s dress very soon.’
At the meeting a few days later, Mrs Kinnaird and Miss Whiteway welcomed her ideas for a pattern of spring motifs in whitework for a March wedding. The amount of sewing was daunting, but Violet looked forward to the challenge. This was what she had been born to do.
She planned their schedule, allocating some of the embroidery to May and enlisting Eleanor in the preparation and finishing. Violet took responsibility for much of the sewing and for checking the quality of every section before it was delivered to Mrs Kinnaird.
As she sewed, her mind often drifted. The date of the soiree at the museum was approaching rapidly and she was growing increasingly nervous. What if she made a fool of herself? She didn’t know the first thing about the subject of the lecture, but what did it matter? He’d asked her because he wanted her there. With William, everything was clear-cut. He didn’t try to trick her or wheedle his way around her with false words and charm. And he was handsome too. Her needle slipped and stabbed her finger. Ruefully, she sucked the blood from her skin, regretting her lapse in concentration. It wouldn’t do to spoil Miss Whiteway’s dress.
When the evening came, Violet worked as late as she could, struggling to make out the pattern of stitches in the light of the oil lamps in the workshop, until Eleanor insisted that she put her work down and get ready to go out.
‘Gone are the days when we had a choice of outfit to wear,’ Violet said, having changed into the dress she’d repaired.
‘You can borrow one of mine,’ Eleanor offered. ‘It’s black faded to a dark brown, and shorter at the front than the back, as is the fashion.’
‘And it’s very similar to this one.’ Violet smiled.
‘Looking on the bright side, our clothes take up very little room and hardly require laundering, saving on soap and hot water. We aren’t compelled like other ladies to spend hours agonising over what to wear.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t go. I don’t want to let him down.’
‘You look beautiful whatever you wear – I envy you. You turn heads.’
‘For the wrong reasons. You’re the pretty one.’ Her sister was growing from a cygnet into an elegant swan, but she didn’t know it. ‘One day, you’ll have young men falling at your feet.’
‘Stop it.’ Eleanor giggled. ‘Let me do your hair.’
She brushed some oil through Violet’s blonde locks, braided them and put them up, leaving a few ringlets loose at the side of her face. Violet looked in the mirror, pinched her cheeks and bit her lip to add colour.
‘There, you look perfect,’ Eleanor said. ‘I hope you have a wonderful evening.’
‘If he turns up – he might have thought better of it.’
‘Of course he’ll turn up. Have faith.’
Within the half-hour, Violet found herself walking at William’s side along the streets towards the museum in Market Square. It had been built above the market, and a sign outside read, ‘The Dover Museum and Philosophical Institute: Founded 1836 for the Promotion of Literary and Scientific Knowledge’.
‘I’m not sure if this is the kind of entertainment you’d normally choose,’ William said as they moved towards the entrance where other people were gathering. ‘Perhaps you would have preferred to go dancing or to the theatre?’
‘Not at all. We can go dancing on another occasion. I’ve never been to hear a lecture before, and to my regret, I haven’t visited the museum even though it’s on our doorstep. This will be a new experience and I’m looking forward to it.’
He smiled, apparently reassured.
‘To be honest, Violet, I don’t mind where we go or what we do. All I want is to spend time with you. I hope I haven’t overstepped the mark in saying so.’
‘You have made me blush.’ She smiled back. ‘But, William, I feel the same.’
‘Let’s go inside,’ he said, offering his arm.
Putting etiquette aside, she took it gracefully and he guided her through the door and up the stairs where a member of the museum staff took their coats. He showed them through to a room that was at least three times the size of the drawing room at Camden Crescent, with venetian blinds across the windows. Violet looked along the shelves and cabinets which lined the walls and encroached towards the central space, where someone had placed rows of chairs ready for the lecture. It was overwhelming, the gaslights reflected in the rippled glazing which protected the exhibits: minerals, strange fossils, boxes and boxes of taxidermy. All the eyes seemed to stare fixedly towards the visitors in an accusatory way, making Violet shudder. There were owls, gulls, hares and even some kittens which reminded her of Dickens, but they weren’t the only creatures looking at her.
‘Mr Noble, good—Oh!’ Uncle Edward stopped, his jaw dropping open when he saw Violet. ‘This is an—’
‘An unexpected pleasure, I know,’ William finished for him. ‘You remember Miss Rayfield.’
Violet read the consternation on Mr and Mrs Chittenden’s faces. Would they turn their backs on William for his choice of companion, or would they stay to make polite conversation, exposing themselves to gossip? Mrs Chittenden took a firm grip on her husband’s arm as though to steer him away, but Uncle Edward went against her.
‘I’m glad to see some younger members making use of their subscription to the museum,’ he said. ‘It’s gratifying to see how popular these events are. I don’t know if you’ve heard, Mr Noble, but I put forward your name the other day as a speaker if you’d be interested. We are all keen to find out more about the latest developments in steam propulsion.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Aren’t we, my dear?’
Mrs Chittenden nodded, but she looked unconvinced
.
‘Let me have a quiet word with this young gentleman about possible dates,’ he went on.
‘I don’t know how you’ve managed that,’ Mrs Chittenden said in an aside to Violet.
‘What exactly?’ she said sweetly. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do. In fact, I know you do. After all the scandal that’s tarnished the Rayfield name, you’ve managed to come up smelling of roses. I don’t understand how you’ve managed to snag someone like Mr Noble. I mean, what are you wearing? The cheapest-looking mourning dress I’ve ever seen, and no adornment whatsoever.’
‘Mr Noble is an honourable man who doesn’t hold my past against me. You should look at yourself, Mrs Chittenden. You cut off your only child for going against you and marrying my loving and blameless sister. I expect it was just as painful for you as it was for John.’ Violet watched Mrs Chittenden’s expression change from one of superiority to doubt. She had touched a raw nerve, she realised. ‘I don’t expect us to become bosom friends, or fond acquaintances, but I shall be staying in Dover and will continue to associate with Mr Noble, whether you like it or not.’
‘I understand, Miss Rayfield.’ Mrs Chittenden’s eyes glinted with what Violet suspected was a tear. ‘Please, tell me. Have you heard anything of John?’
‘I’ve had word from my sister. They are both well and living in Woolwich. If you wish, I can ask them if they would consider writing to you.’
‘Oh, that’s … I’m glad they are well. Yes, if you will.’ Mrs Chittenden lowered her voice. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to you, Violet. Shall we sit down? The lecture is about to begin.’
Violet took a seat between William and Mrs Chittenden. The speaker was a professor with a lively manner, but within a quarter of an hour, Mrs Chittenden was asleep, nodding now and again. Violet glanced towards William, who smiled.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Mrs Chittenden said, having woken up for the end. ‘I’m glad we dined before we came out.’
‘Did you enjoy the talk?’ William asked after the Chittendens had taken their leave.
‘It was … food for thought,’ she said, making him chuckle. ‘I’ll think of what the professor said when I next poach an egg – I’ll add vinegar to stop it falling apart. Otherwise, much of it went over the top of my head.’
William invited her to see some of the exhibits before supper, and soon she was absorbed looking through a large collection of butterflies from all over the world, their colours and shapes beyond her imagination.
‘I remember the butterflies on your gown,’ William said. ‘Did you embroider those yourself?’
She smiled at the memory. ‘They’re my favourite subject. I can’t wait to do some more, taking inspiration from some of these. They’re wonderful.’
Having eaten and drunk a small glass of wine, they signed the visitors’ book and left the museum.
‘Shall we walk back along the promenade, or do you need to get back for Joe?’ William asked.
‘I hope he will be asleep by now,’ she said.
‘So, your answer is yes?’
She nodded and they headed via Fishmongers Lane and New Bridge to Waterloo Crescent where they strolled along the front. It was a chilly November evening, but Violet hardly noticed the cold.
‘May I take your arm?’ she ventured as they stopped to watch the sea wash across the shore, the waves topped with white horses which gleamed in the light from the streetlamps.
‘It’s coming up for the first anniversary of the accident,’ she said. ‘That time has flown.’
‘It’ll soon be Christmas. I’m going to find it … well, it will be different without Ma.’
‘It will be hard for all of us, I think.’ Recalling poor Mama, she stared out towards the horizon where she could just make out the lights on a steam packet. ‘Our mother would have wanted us to enjoy it – I’m determined to put on a small celebration. Do you … Would you like to come to us for dinner on Christmas Day? Oh, what am I saying? I’m sure you have better things to do. You move in different circles – I mean, you’re going to give a lecture at the museum.’
William smiled. ‘Actually, I’ve already received an invitation to spend Christmas at Walmer Castle, the Lord Warden’s residence.’
‘Oh, then you can’t possibly accept,’ Violet said, disappointed.
‘No, I can’t. The Lord Warden will have to do without me. I’m very grateful for your offer – I’d love to join you. I’ll send a joint of meat – as my contribution to the day. Shall I come to you straight after the service at St Mary’s?’
‘Yes, that will suit us very well.’ She felt a little guilty that she wouldn’t be going to church – she preferred to stay at home with Joe.
Proud to be on the arm of the man she admired more than anyone, Violet walked on again.
‘I hope I don’t offend you by asking if you think you will remarry?’ William began.
‘I won’t, but that’s because I was never married. I’m not offended by your question, by the way, just a little surprised.’
‘Then I think it would be even harder for you to contemplate the idea of marriage,’ he went on. ‘You are a person in your own right, beholden to no one and free to make decisions as to how you bring up your son and run your business.’
‘If I choose not to marry, then I would be sacrificing the opportunity of companionship and love.’
‘And Joe’s chance of having a loving pa in his life.’
‘It would be good for him to have a father figure, I agree, but I’d have to have more reason than that to commit to a husband.’ She wondered what Arvin would have made of Joe. She thought he would have been proud of the child they had made together. She hoped the Lord had forgiven him for what he’d done, and that he’d found peace.
‘What about children? Wouldn’t you like to be blessed with more?’
‘That would definitely be a consideration.’
William squeezed her arm, sending the hairs on her neck up on end. Her love for him surged through her like the waves that washed across the shingle. She wished she could walk at his side for ever.
‘Violet, if you did marry, would you wish to continue running the workshop?’
‘Of course. I prefer that to overseeing a household, and I’d hate to give up embroidery for a husband. It’s my life.’
‘Are you saying that you don’t want a husband? That you would resent him for being your jailer?’
‘I didn’t say that. It’s marriage that’s the imprisoning element, not the husband himself,’ she said. ‘Matrimony is a way of controlling and subjugating women – oh dear, you think me an activist, but it’s what our governess, Miss Whiteway, used to say. Men and women, husbands and wives should allow each other the freedom to do as they wish, not confine them to their separate spheres in society.’
‘I understand.’
‘I’m not against marriage. I’m afraid of losing my independence again after having fought so hard for it. William, I’m very fond of you.’
‘I respect your opinions. I love you for who you are – there, I’ve said it. I love you, Violet. I wouldn’t want you to change.’
‘I’m not saying that I’ll never marry,’ she pointed out gently. ‘It’s just that I wouldn’t want anyone to offer to marry me out of pity, or a sense of duty, no matter how honourable that is.’
‘Then I may hope?’
She nodded.
‘In that case, I’m a happy man.’
He walked her the rest of the way back to Oxenden Street and wished her goodnight.
May and Eleanor had retired to bed and the candles were out, so she made her way upstairs in the dark. She crept into the room she shared with her sister, checked on Joe who was fast asleep in his crib, undressed and slid under the covers.
William had said he loved her. The more she mulled over their conversation, the more convinced she was that he was planning to propose. She had laid out her views on marriage, the benefits and disa
dvantages, and how she felt about it. Her initial joy and anticipation began to fade. Had she put her views across too forcefully? In the cold light of day, would he change his mind?
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Turn of the Tide
Three weeks later, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, there was great excitement and anticipation at the house in Oxenden Street. Violet and May were occupied with embroidering what would become the train for Miss Whiteway’s wedding dress, while Eleanor kept Joe occupied, and Dickens away as much as she could, shutting the cat in the kitchen when he yowled plaintively to come back.
May looked up and blinked. ‘Oh, this is beginning to hurt my eyes.’
‘And mine.’ White thread on white fabric wasn’t the easiest to work with, but the effect was beautiful, like the subtle shades in a cloud on a summer’s day. Violet heard the sleet clattering against the window outside, and the knock on the door.
‘Oh, who is that?’ she sighed. They had already been disturbed twice that day – by Tom Ward wanting his rent, and by Mrs Kinnaird bringing an order for decorating the bodice of a ballgown for an acquaintance of Miss Whiteway’s. It hadn’t been the first time that their old governess had put a good word in for them. ‘I’ll get it.’
She opened the door to find the butcher’s boy standing bedraggled on the step, with his trolley covered with an oilcloth.
‘This is for a Miss Rayfield,’ he said, lifting the cloth and picking up a great fat goose, plucked and ready to be cooked.
‘I haven’t ordered this,’ Violet said, but the boy read the label that was tied around its neck, confirming that it belonged to her, and then she remembered that William had offered to contribute to dinner the next day. She thanked the boy, took the goose and gave him a penny for his trouble.
‘Look what I’ve got.’ She carried the goose through the workshop in both arms. Eleanor opened the kitchen door at the sound of the disturbance.