by Carol Hedges
“You have a good appetite, Belinda. I like to see a young woman enjoying her … food,” he murmurs, imbuing the word food with a significance that is not lost upon her.
She feels her mouth going dry. She looks down, hoping he cannot hear the beat of her heart.
“The temporary absence of your employers will leave you alone and unprotected once again, will it not?” he continues. “It will be my duty … nay, it will be my pleasure, to look after you.”
He moves closer, his hand stroking her arm, then moving up to her shoulder.
“Should you like that, lovely Belinda Kite?”
She swallows.
“Miss Keet, where are you? You are keeping us waiting!” Josiah calls from the hallway.
Hawksley draws her close, lifting her face to his. He brushes her mouth with his warm lips.
“I cannot wait for us to be alone together again,” he whispers.
In the carriage going back to Cartwright Gardens, Josiah is full of plans, Sissy is full of admiration, and Belinda Kite is full of desires and daydreams. And cake.
***
A few days later, Frederick Undercroft, lawyer, convivial fellow, and supporter of the specialist independent book trade, sits behind his desk in his lawyer’s office surrounded by law books with gilt-lettered spines and marbled endpapers.
He has a morning appointment with a man he met at the Gyll on his last visit. He remembers precious little about that evening; indeed, he cannot even recall whether he spent it in his own bed or in the bed of some woman he met at the nightclub.
He certainly does not remember the man, but here is his name in his diary. Here is his card on his desk, and here, if he is not mistaken, is the gentleman himself arriving in the outer office now.
The clerk knocks discreetly, opens the door and announces, rather stiffly:
“A Mr Mark Hawksley to see you.”
Hawksley enters. Freshly-shaved, his top hat brushed and shiny, he wears a city suit that fits him like a glove. And gloves that fit him like a second skin. A discreet aroma of expensive cologne enters with him. Undercroft notes all this. The man is exactly what he himself used to be before he started feeling seedy.
Now, Undercroft’s clothes hang off him, and his top hat is frequently unbrushed as Georgiana does not bother to remind the new girl to attend to it. He is neglected and rundown, like some old nag fit only for the knacker’s yard. He shakes the client’s hand and gestures towards the cliental chair.
Hawksley sits, adjusting the sharply-ironed creases in his suit trousers (another thing the maid fails to attend to, Undercroft thinks).
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance again, Mr Undercroft.” He smiles. “I prefer not to mix business with pleasure, so after our conversation at the Gyll, I decided to arrange an appointment at your place of work.”
“You want me to draw up your Will?”
Hawksley smiles and shakes his head.
“Indeed no. I have a few years ahead of me before I need concern myself with matters like that. I am here to offer you the chance to invest in my business: I own a diamond mine – you recall we talked about it when we met at the Gyll. I believe your friend Mr Osborne has also mentioned my name? He tells me that he has. He and his son have both invested in it.”
Ah. Undercroft’s mind drifts back to the last time he dined at Boodles.
“Yes. He has mentioned it.”
“How fortuitous that we should then run into each other,” Hawksley continues smoothly.
He draws from his pocket a leaflet which he places on the desk, facing the lawyer.
“Here are the details of the Dominion Diamond Mine Company. As you can see, returns on your investment are likely to double in the first year, and rise steeply thereafter. The first seam is already being dug out, and the yield of gems is likely to exceed the estimation of the mining experts I have consulted.”
Undercroft leans forward. He tries to look nonchalant, as if gentlemen offering him shares in diamond mines is an everyday occurrence. But at the back of his mind he is totting up his diminishing client list and his demanding mistress list.
“At this stage,” Hawksley continues, “I am only offering this opportunity to a few select individuals. Your name was put forward by Mr Osborne, who indicated to me privately that you might be interested in investing. And of course, you yourself expressed such an interest in my project and desired to know more when we met the other evening.”
He did? Undercroft strains to recall exactly what he said.
Hawksley extracts a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket.
“I am shortly to depart for South Africa to oversee the work, so time is of the essence. But of course, I am quite content to let you study the leaflet at your leisure and consult with your friends before making any decision.”
Frederick Undercroft steeples his fingers together.
“The returns on any investment are guaranteed, you say?”
“Oh, I can guarantee you will not lose. And of course, all investors will have the chance to buy any of the diamonds before they go on the open market. A diamond necklace or a ring made from gems you yourself helped to dig up, as it were – how could any woman alive resist such a present?”
Undercroft opens a drawer.
“Will a banker’s draft do? I do not have sufficient cash about me.”
“Perfectly,” Hawksley nods. “And I shall send your share certificate to you by close of business this afternoon.”
Undercroft writes out the draft and hands it over.
Hawksley glances briefly at the amount without letting his face betray any emotion. Then he pockets the draft and stands up.
“I am pleased we have finally met,” he says. “I have heard so much about lawyer Undercroft from my friends and fellow business associates. Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
The two men shake hands once more.
Hawksley bows and departs. He is delighted with the success of the visit. So delighted in fact, that he fails to notice the extraordinary behaviour of the lawyer’s clerk, who stares fixedly at his face as he shows him out, and then shakes his fist through the window as he walks away.
Some time later Hawksley stands outside a Regent Street department store. He taps his feet, glances up and down the busy thoroughfare, checks the time. He is waiting for Belinda Kite, whom he is ‘looking after’ during her employers’ absence. She is fashionably late.
Eventually Belinda emerges from the store, where she has been browsing the latest ladies’ fashions in Godey’s magazine and looking at the new arrivals from Paris. She has fallen terribly in love with the dearest little bonnet and some satin slippers.
Actually, she has fallen in love with an awful lot of things, but she has realistically pared it down to a bonnet, shoes and a new dress. None of these things are affordable, of course, but a girl can dream. Belinda Kite has got very used to living on dreams.
Now she approaches Hawksley, noting how well his coat fits his shoulders and his manly figure. He is by far the best-dressed and handsomest man on the street, she thinks, as he turns at her approach and bows low in greeting. She has waited for him all her life, without knowing it.
And she is going to luncheon with him.
Hawksley takes her to a nice little restaurant off the Strand, the sort that has separate boxes, at the back and low discreet lighting, and a Maître d’ who might recognise one from previous visits with other women, but would never betray this by the slightest facial movement or inadvertent remark.
Over a delicious luncheon, Belinda chatters happily about the lovely things she has seen, especially the dresses, while Hawksley smiles indulgently. She is delightful, young, and innocent of the ways of the world. So unlike the women he normally frequents.
Her peaches-and-cream skin, green eyes and titian hair are striking. Her small waist accentuates her high, round breasts He noticed several of the other male diners eyeing her with interest as they both passed by their tables. He likes to see ot
her men envy him his companion.
Hawksley has done a good morning’s business. He can afford to be generous. Besides, there is the prospect of sweets to come later on. He lets her run on, then at the end of the meal he opens his pocketbook.
“So, my little extravagant spendthrift, I gather you have your eye on a new dress. How much are you planning to take me for?” he says, play-frowning.
Belinda Kite stares at the pocketbook, trying not to let her amazement show. The sight of all those banknotes almost takes her breath away. That anybody should have so much money – and that the anybody in question should be sitting opposite her and offering her some – almost renders her speechless.
Almost, but not quite. Belinda does some rapid calculations in her head. She wishes to reply honestly, but she is avid, as only the once-impoverished can be.
“It would depend,” she says thoughtfully, “upon whether the dress was bought ready-made or handmade by a private dressmaker.”
“Would you like a handmade dress?” he asks.
She almost stops breathing.
“I should like that above all things,” she murmurs.
“Then let it be so,” Hawksley says, handing over the pocketbook. “Take what you want, my beautiful Belinda. And as soon your dress is made, let me know and I shall escort you to the theatre and then to one of the finest restaurants in town. Should you like that?”
She feels tears pricking her eyes. Her heart swells. When you have had doors slammed in your face all your life, to have one left open for you is almost too much to bear.
“I shall tell you when I have it,” she says, helping herself, then handing back the pocket book.
He laughs.
“For that sort of money, I should hope it will be the finest dress in London.”
“Oh, it will,” she assures him earnestly. “It truly will.”
***
Emily Cully is used to the ebb and flow of the dressmaking business. In Spring, at the start of the Season, when the cream of London society (rich and thick) descend on the capital to dine, party and launch their daughters onto the marriage market, the seamstresses and dressmakers work flat out to sew the beautiful gowns they wear, sometimes only once.
Now, in the dark days of Autumn, with Winter breathing over its shoulder, the demand for her services has temporarily slackened. The Christmas season has not yet begun. Therefore she is delighted to receive a letter requesting her presence to advise, measure and fit a new customer for a winter dress.
Having lit the fires, made breakfast, seen Jack off to work, cleared up the dishes and washed a few clothes, Emily sets out in the grey dawn with her pattern books and sewing equipment. She vaguely recognises the address, but it is not until the omnibus drops her off outside the British Museum that she associates it with a former client.
She reaches the house, knocks on the door and is shown into the parlour. Here, instead of the pale, lanky young lady she fitted previously, she is greeted by the young woman who had been her companion.
“Good morning, Mrs Cully,” she says. “I wrote to you because I should like you to make me a winter dress.”
Emily places her basket on the table.
“I hope Miss Bulstrode is well?” she asks.
The young woman tosses her auburn ringlets.
“Oh, she is quite well, thank you – I received a letter from her yesterday. She and her brother have returned to their home town for a while.”
She picks up Mrs Demorest’s Muse of Fashion and flicks through it.
“Here – this is what I had in mind. It is all the rage in Paris right now, so I believe.”
Emily glances at the picture, which shows two elegant ladies wearing dresses of rich green and purple tarlatane, very low-cut at the front, with puffed sleeves, three skirts edged in narrow black velvet, and bretelles of lace. She purses her lip.
“These are very beautiful dresses indeed, I think. But,” she suggests gently, “to have such a dress handmade would be very expensive.”
The young lady’s smile is that of a cat that owns a creamery.
“Oh! Do not worry yourself about the expense, Mrs Cully – you shall be paid whatever you decide to charge. Now, I have already visited a few department stores, and Marshall’s have a very nice bronze velveteen. It will be just the thing, as it is a colour that suits me, I think. With cream puffed sleeves and black velvet edging. Do not you think that would look fine?”
Emily concurs, even though she dislikes sewing velveteen because it frays so easily, and she dislikes sewing black because it makes her eyes hurt, and the evenings are getting dark so early that she is spending a lot of the housekeeping money on candles.
“Then perhaps you would like to take some measurements?” the young lady suggests, turning her back so that Emily can unbutton the rather shabby day dress she is wearing.
After Emily Cully has left, Belinda Kite skips downstairs, humming happily to herself. She has just ordered a beautiful dress for herself, and with the money left over, she will now also be able to fund the purchase of the pretty little bonnet and satin slippers.
If anybody had told her, when she was just a poor, abandoned, despised, put-upon little drudge, that her life would turn out this way, she would have laughed in their face. But it has. And here she is to prove it.
***
Emily Cully carefully times her arrival at Marshall’s to coincide with the departure of the sewing-room girls. Then she and Caro make themselves a pot of tea on the tiny gas hob in the supervisor’s office, and sit down to study Mrs Demorest’s Muse of Fashion.
“That’s going to take a whole world of basting and fine hand-sewing,” Caro remarks, nodding at the picture of Belinda’s future dress. “Luverly though, innit.”
“I was wondering whether you might be able to help me with it.”
Caro pours tea into her saucer and blows on it.
“Course I will, Emily, love, if I can. Wotcher want me to do?”
“I don’t think I have space to lay it all out at home anymore,” Emily sighs. “Jack has started bringing paperwork back, and he leaves it out on the table. Then there is the mud from his boots.”
Caro rolls her eyes.
“Men, eh? Always in the way or under your feet, bless ‘em. Mine brought home a couple of pig’s ears the other night. Didn’t bother to wrap ‘em, just dumped ‘em on the dresser. Why don’t you come by after closing tomorrow, and you can use the big cutting-out table here? I’ll give you a hand if you like.”
Emily’s face brightens.
“Would you? Oh, I should be so grateful.”
“Trade’s slack at the moment, and they’re buying in more ready-mades from factories all the time. I’m even thinking of laying a couple of girls off until the Spring – yes, I see your face, and no, I don’t want to have to do it, but there just ain’t the work for them right now.”
“Are they good needlewomen?”
“One of them is. T’other – I don’t think her heart’s in it. Never was from the off. I’m guessing where she will end up, and it’ll be no loss to the dressmaking business.”
“Perhaps I could use the first girl? One of my sewing women has moved to Bristol with her husband.”
Caro nods.
“That’d be great, Em. I’d hate to see the poor girl on the streets or in the Workus. And I’m happy to help too where I can. When does your client want it?”
“As soon as possible.”
Caro rolls her eyes.
“Ain’t that how it always is! Like we has a magic wand to wave. Allacazam: here’s your dress madam. And I guess you won’t get paid until you deliver it.”
Emily pats her pocket.
“The young woman who ordered this dress has already paid me generously.”
Caro raises an eyebrow.
“Young woman? Ordering a dress like this? Surely you mean Fine Lady?”
Emily grins mischievously.
“It is that same one I pointed out to you a couple of
weeks ago, upstairs in the store. She’s the companion of a young woman I made two nice day dresses for a while back.”
“Oho! And how can a ‘companion’ afford an expensive dress like what you’ve just shown me?”
Emily pinches her lips together. The two of them eye each other for a second, then start giggling.
“Picked up a rich fancy man?” Caro splutters.
“Must have,” Emily concurs.
“Well, good luck to her. Won’t last, of course. Never does. Probably got a wife and five kids tucked away somewhere. Still, ours not to inquire, eh?”
They finish their tea. Emily leaves her shopping list with her friend, who promises to work out the best price of each item. They agree that she will stop by next day at the same hour to start work.
“You get some good red meat into you tonight,” Caro says, as the two hug each other fondly on parting. “You’re still looking proper peaky to me.”
***
Proper peaky is probably not an expression Frederick Undercroft, lawyer, lover of fine wine and accommodating women, would use. Though whatever terminology he’d come up with, the fact remains that he is currently confined to his bed in the green-papered bedroom with the lock on the door.
He is not sick enough to call out his physician – nosebleeds, trembling of the lower limbs and a disinclination to connect to the world outside his bedroom window hardly justifies paying the exorbitant fee he will be charged to be told exactly what he already knows.
No, he will be right as rain in a few days. He has convinced himself of this. Besides, he doesn’t want the quack ferreting out his other little problem … which he can barely admit, even to himself. Rest, beef tea brought at regular intervals by the unattractive new girl, and he will soon be up and out again (in all senses).
Meanwhile Georgiana Undercroft is supposed to tiptoe round the house in slippers, like a mute mouse, because the slightest sound reduces her lord and master to apoplectic ragings and brings on his nosebleeds. So, she tiptoes. But every now and then she cannot resist slamming the front door on her way out. Because she knows it annoys him. And just because she can.