The Best of Sisters

by Dilly Court

  He arrived on time, looking quite breathtakingly handsome in his top hat, tails and flowing opera cloak lined with scarlet satin. His appreciative glance both comforted and disconcerted Eliza and she sought vainly for an excuse not to accompany him.

  ‘Are you ready, Eliza?’

  ‘Not quite – I mean – I ought to wait for Millie to come home. I can’t leave Dolly on her own.’

  ‘The girl is on her way. I made certain that the housekeeper let her off on time.’ Brandon stepped inside the house and picked up her shawl. ‘You really ought to have a mantle, my dear. It’s quite chilly outside.’ He glanced at the empty grate, raising an eyebrow. ‘And not much warmer inside.’

  ‘I don’t feel the cold,’ Eliza countered, not wanting to admit that she did not possess a mantle, and the unlit fire was a necessary economy. ‘I’m ready, but I really should wait for Millie.’

  ‘You worry too much, Eliza. What harm could come to the old lady in the next half-hour or so?’ Brandon smiled, proffering his arm. ‘My carriage awaits.’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m coming, but first I must ask our neighbour to listen out for Dolly, just in case she wakes before Millie gets home.’

  When they arrived outside the Ship and Turtle in Leadenhall Street, Eliza’s back was aching from being held stiffly erect in an attempt to prevent the motion of the carriage from throwing her against Brandon. She stifled a sigh of relief as the coachman opened the door and let down the steps. She smiled as she recognised Hawkins, the coachman who had shown her kindness when he had driven her from Pennington Street to the chandlery. But before she could acknowledge him, Brandon had leapt out and helped her from the carriage, issuing a curt instruction to Hawkins to walk the horses and then wait until they were ready to return home. Eliza felt sorry for the poor man having to huddle beneath his many-caped greatcoat on such a cold night. The pair of matched greys were snorting and steam rose in great clouds from their hides: they really ought to be in a nice warm stable, she thought, accepting Brandon’s arm and wondering whether he possessed even the smallest amount of conscience. But he showed no sign of caring for the comfort of his servant or his animals, and he led her into the fuggy interior of the pub. The tempting aroma of food was laced with the fumes of strong spirits, together with the malty smell of ale, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. A waiter came hurrying towards them and, judging by the welcome Brandon received, it was obvious to Eliza that he was an old and valued customer. The bar was crowded and all the tables occupied, but the waiter led them up a narrow staircase to a private room on the first floor. As he bowed out, Eliza caught a knowing gleam in his eye and she had to curb the desire to run after him. Slowly, without taking his eyes off Eliza, Brandon placed his opera hat on the side table and then peeled off his gloves. With a theatrical flourish, he discarded his cloak.

  ‘Let me take your shawl, Eliza.’ His hands rested a little too long on her shoulders for comfort and his eyes wandered from her face to the fichu, which had slipped just a little.

  Adjusting the gauzy material, she moved away on the pretext of examining the table that was set for two, with starched white linen and brightly polished silver cutlery sparkling in the candlelight.

  Brandon made no attempt to follow her. He went to a side table where he filled two glasses with wine from a decanter. He handed one to Eliza. ‘Let’s have a toast, my dear.’

  Wishing that she were anywhere but here, she took the glass from him. The ruby-red claret brought back memories of the dinner party at the Millers’ house when Brigham had caused her to spill her wine, ruining the gown that belonged to Miss Cynthia. In a detached part of her mind, she thought that an accidental spill this evening would barely leave a mark on Daisy’s scarlet dress.

  ‘Here’s to you, Eliza. The prettiest girl in London. And here’s to our cordial relationship, both personal and in business.’ Brandon raised his glass and drank deeply.

  She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, but she held his gaze and sipped her drink, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the oaky flavour of blackcurrants and plums, with a bit of vinegar thrown in. Why toffs made such a fuss over wine, she couldn’t think. She would have liked to ask for some lemonade to make it sweeter, but Brandon was rolling the tart liquid round in his mouth as if it tasted like honey drizzled from a honeycomb. Eliza raised her glass. ‘To a successful business partnership,’ she said, deliberately ignoring the inference to anything more personal.

  Brandon took his glass and the decanter to the table, and setting them down on the snowy cloth he pulled out a chair. ‘Take a seat, my dear. You must be famished.’

  She sat down and Brandon took a seat opposite her. He reached out to tug at a bell pull. ‘I took the liberty of ordering when I booked the table. Their turtle soup is superb, and I thought you might like to try the roast pheasant. We’ll think about dessert later.’

  In the deep shadows she could just make out a divan covered with plump cushions. Brandon was busy topping up her glass with wine, and Eliza had the uncomfortable feeling that it was she who was going to be the dessert. But if that was Brandon’s plan, he gave no hint of it in his conversation. Over the turtle soup, which was actually very good, he kept her entertained with stories of his escapades at Oxford. The roast pheasant was delicious but extremely rich, and Eliza couldn’t help thinking that this meal would have fed them all at home for a week at least. Brandon ate with relish, drinking deeply, and sent for another bottle of claret even before the soup bowls were removed from the table. Eliza drank very little; she must keep a clear head and not be lulled into a false sense of security by his undeniable charm and wit. Every time she tried to raise the subject of restocking and reopening the chandlery, Brandon managed to steer the conversation away to some other topic. He was, she had to admit, an amusing companion and he seemed intent only on giving her pleasure. As she studied his handsome, animated countenance, Eliza found herself gradually becoming hypnotised by his beautifully modulated voice. If it weren’t considered the done thing to talk about business over dinner, then she would just have to follow his lead and be patient.

  By the time the covers were removed, Eliza was feeling more relaxed.

  ‘May I take your order for dessert, sir?’ The waiter hovered respectfully by the table.

  ‘I’ll ring for you when we’re ready,’ Brandon said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  The waiter bowed out of the room and Eliza’s nerves began to jangle as the mood was broken. ‘I – I’m not very hungry,’ she said, pleating her table napkin with fidgety fingers. ‘It’s getting late and I really ought to go home.’

  Brandon’s dark eyes seemed fathomless in the dim light. He rose slowly to his feet, swaying almost imperceptibly. ‘Come now, Eliza. You don’t want to spoil a perfect evening by running away early.’

  She pushed back her chair and stood up, dropping her napkin on the floor. ‘I’m quite tired, Brandon. It’s been a long day.’

  He was at her side before she had a chance to make for the door. ‘Don’t be a silly little goose. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He drew her into a close embrace.

  ‘Let go of me.’ Eliza tried to push him away, but he held her in an iron grip.

  ‘One kiss, my dear. Just a little kiss.’

  His breath was hot on her cheek and his lips found hers in a kiss that was laced with wine and desire. With one arm clamped round her waist, he tweaked the fichu from her shoulders, and a swift tug at her bodice exposed her breasts to his groping fingers. Eliza struggled and attempted to kick his shins but was hampered by the hoops that supported the full skirts of her gown. With a sound that was halfway between a groan and a growl, Brandon lifted her off her feet and carried her to the divan. He threw her down amongst the cushions. Before she had a chance to clamber to her feet, he was on her, kissing her roughly and without tenderness, almost as though he was trying to devour her. Eliza struggled and scratched at him with her nails, but the weight of his body was crushing the a
ir from her lungs so that when he released her lips she could only utter a faint cry for help.

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ Brandon snarled. He thrust his hand under her voluminous skirts, pushing, prodding and seeking the seat of his desire between her legs. ‘You’ve been asking for it all evening, and now you’re going to get it.’

  The pain was too much for Eliza, and in desperation she brought up her knees and rolled off the divan with Brandon tumbling after her. She tried to crawl away but he grabbed her by one of her ankles, dragging her back across the polished floorboards.

  She opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth. Kicking out with her free foot she caught him a hefty blow on the face that made him yelp with pain. She seized her chance, scrambled to her feet and ran to the door. She was tugging at the handle as he got up, swearing and holding his face. ‘You little bitch.’

  For a moment, she thought the door was locked, but then to her intense relief it opened and Eliza stumbled into the corridor. She raced down the stairs into the crowded bar room. Coming to an abrupt halt, with her hair tumbling about her shoulders and her bodice open to the waist, she crossed her arms over her naked breasts. There was a sudden hush in the bar. Brandon was so close to her that she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. Her eyes sought a way of escape through the crowded bar room but a tall figure emerged from the smoke and gloom, dressed in black from head to toe. Holding a Bible before him like a shield, he pointed his finger at Brandon. ‘You lecherous, fornicating sinner. You’ll be damned to hell for your drunken debauchery.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Arthur Little strode across the floor, barging between the tables and unseating a couple of drunken customers on the way. He stopped when he reached Eliza, and his bushy eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline as a look of recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘Eliza?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Little. I ain’t never been so glad to see no one in me whole life.’ Eliza would have flung her arms around him, but that would have exposed her nakedness. She stood, shivering, as a murmur of voices rippled round the bar, rising to a crescendo of hoots and laughter. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Brandon glaring at Arthur, his face white with fury.

  ‘Get out of here, you sanctimonious old fool. What right have you to come into a public house canting and raving like a lunatic? This lady is with me. So mind your own bloody business.’

  ‘That’s right, mister. You give her one for me.’ A purple-nosed man raised his tankard, and then slurped a mouthful, spilling most of the ale down his neck.

  A roar of laughter accompanied his action and Brandon made a dive for Eliza, but she dodged behind Arthur and found Mary, wide-eyed and staring at her in disbelief. ‘Liza? What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, Mary. Thank God you come.’

  Mary slipped off her shawl and wrapped it around Eliza’s bare shoulders. ‘Let’s get out of here, Liza. Leave it to Dad; he’ll sort the bugger out.’

  By this time the pub was in complete uproar with the crowd jeering and cheering. Arthur stood firm, with his Bible clutched to his chest. Brandon was raving alternately at Arthur and at the punters, who appeared to be egging him on. Eliza and Mary slipped outside unnoticed.

  ‘What was you doing in there?’ Mary demanded, shivering. ‘Who was that man?’

  Eliza shook her head. ‘I w-want to g-go home.’

  ‘You can’t walk all the way to Wapping in that state. Just look at you, Liza. You look like a Billingsgate doxy.’ Mary glanced nervously over her shoulder as a carriage rumbled towards them drawn by two grey horses.

  Hawkins drew them to a halt and leaned down from his box. ‘Gawd’s strewth, young miss. What’s he done to you?’

  ‘Please, Mr Hawkins. Will you take us home?’ Eliza cast him an imploring glance. ‘I know you might get into trouble, but you’ve got daughters of your own, you told me so.’

  He hesitated for a moment, glancing at the closed pub door and then back at his restive horses. Hawkins nodded. ‘I can always say one of the horses lost a shoe and I had to find a farrier, which wouldn’t be an easy task at this time of night and in this part of town. Hop in, young ladies.’

  The next morning Eliza got up early, and, leaving Millie to light the fire and make Dolly’s breakfast of tea and toast, she went first to the chandlery to inspect the builders’ progress. Although she had slept badly, and was still burning with shame and humiliation after Brandon’s failed attempt at seduction, she was determined not to allow his despicable behaviour to prey on her mind. She fully intended to go to the offices of Miller and Son and tell Brandon exactly what she thought of him. She would go to Aaron, if necessary, but she would not let his son think that he could treat her like a common slut.

  On the corner of Old Gravel Lane, Arnold and Dan were surveying the newly constructed roof and munching thick slices of bread and dripping. Arnold turned his head at the sound of Eliza’s heels click-clacking on the frosty pavement, and his face split into a broad grin. ‘Morning, miss. The roof’s finished and the inside is all but done. We’re almost back in business.’

  Some of Eliza’s gloom lifted and she managed to force her lips into a smile. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Will you let me stay on and help?’ Dan asked anxiously. ‘I’m a good worker, ain’t I, Basher? I done real good. He’ll tell you so.’

  Eliza nodded. ‘I’m sure we can find you something to do, Dan. And first of all you can show me round the inside.’

  Arnold flashed her a grateful smile. ‘The boy’s been worriting hisself sick, thinking you wouldn’t have no need of him now.’

  ‘We’ll need all the help we can get to set the store up as it was.’ Eliza picked up her skirts. ‘Come with me, Arnold. You too, Dan. I want to see if the carpenters have finished putting up the shelves and building the stands.’

  Everything inside the new shop was to Eliza’s liking, except for the fact that there was no sail loft. It seemed odd to be in a one-storey building, and she knew she would miss having Davy working up above her while she was serving in the chandlery. But her first concern was to fill the shelves with new stock and start trading. Then she would be able to pay off the Millers and regain control over her life. Brandon would never again have the chance to take advantage of her.

  After she had inspected everything, and had consulted with the foreman to find out when the work would be finally completed, Eliza left Arnold and Dan sweeping up wood shavings and she set off for Pennington Street. First of all, she wanted to thank Hawkins, who had risked his job to bring herself and Mary safely home. She found him sitting outside the stables, warming his hands against a brazier filled with glowing coals. She went straight up to him, holding out her hand. ‘I come to thank you for what you done last night.’

  He stood up, rubbing his grimy mitts against his greatcoat before taking Eliza’s hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘That’s all right, miss.’

  ‘But did you get into trouble? Please tell me if you did.’

  ‘When I got back I found that Mr Brandon had been drowning his sorrows, so to speak. He never even noticed I’d gone. Him and the religious gent what was preaching against the evils of drink was the best of pals. Laughing and joking together they was, and both as drunk as lords.’

  She thanked him again and walked on towards the offices of Miller and Son. Her anger at Brandon was now fuelled by the knowledge that he had got Arthur drunk, undoing all the good work done by Mr Booth and his wife at the mission. She marched into the outer office, bypassing the anxious clerk, and headed straight for Brandon’s door. She went in without knocking.

  Brandon was slumped over his desk with his head resting on his arms. He looked up, staring at her with bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I want a few words with you, mister,’ Eliza said, standing before him, arms akimbo, ready for a fight.

  ‘Not now, please. I’m a sick man.’

  ‘You deserve to have a bad head and I hope it hurts like a dozen navvies with pickaxes hammering
inside your worthless skull.’

  Closing his eyes, Brandon raised his hands to clutch his forehead. ‘It does. And worse.’

  ‘Good.’ Eliza reached across the desk and pulled his hands away from his face. ‘Now you listen to me, Mr Brandon Miller. You said it was going to be a business meeting. You never said it was going to be funny business.’

  Brandon’s mouth twisted into a smile and then he winced. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Eliza. It hurts.’

  She slapped his cheek with the flat of her hand. ‘And I hope that hurt too. You are a despicable, lying cheat. You treated me like a common whore and you got poor Arthur drunk. That man had given up the booze until you tempted him.’

  ‘You little bitch.’ Brandon clutched his cheek, staring up at her in disbelief. He got slowly to his feet, swaying slightly. ‘You’d better watch your manners, miss.’

  ‘Or what?’ Eliza demanded, facing him squarely.

  ‘Or I’ll foreclose on your loan and you’ll lose your livelihood. You’ll be glad then of men like Brigham Stone when they offer you money for your services.’

  Eliza raised her hand to strike him again, but Brandon caught her by the wrist. ‘You came from the gutter, Eliza. I can send you straight back to it. So don’t cross me, my dear.’