‘I have no idea. He may do, but I think it’s more likely that he uses an agent to bargain with the suppliers in France and to have a cargo waiting to be picked up by an English boat. Somehow.’
‘I thought it was the French boats that brought it across the Channel.’
‘Well, you may be right. I don’t really know. All I do know is that Pierre works on his own and appears to deal only in fabrics. My father used his own boats, but Pierre is not in that league now.’
‘Who knows what a Frenchman will get up to?’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps the less we know about it, the better. We’ve never bothered before, so why should we start now? Where’s my notebook? I must make a record of this before we use it. Shall you write a notice for the window?’
‘Yes. I’ll advertise for an apprentice, too.’
‘You’ll be wanting something for the Valentine ball too, Helene. We ought to have thought about that before now, you know.’
‘It wouldn’t look good, Prue. I’m in mourning. I shan’t be going this year.’
There was something in the way she looked at me, standing stock-still as if I had caused the pain in her eyes. ‘Not going?’ she whispered. ‘Can you afford not to go? You know what a difference it makes to our order book when you’re seen wearing one of our gowns at the Assembly Rooms. And this is one of the most popular balls in the whole calendar.’
‘I know that, Prue. But I’ve always had a respectable partner until now, haven’t I? So how d’ye think it’ll look, only weeks after Linas has gone, and me cavorting around without him? What d’ye think they’ll say? That I’m already on the look out for a replacement? Have some sense, Prue.’
She took my rebuke like a friend. ‘What about Mr Monkton’s brother? You’ve just spent two weeks at his home. Would he not oblige?’
‘Obliging doesn’t come into it,’ I said, crossly. ‘I would not ask him. And anyway, he’s in mourning too, so he won’t be going, so that’s that. Nor do I relish the idea of being taken for his mistress, which is exactly,’ I snapped as she rolled her eyes heavenwards, ‘what would be said if he were to partner me. You know how people talk. They’re probably talking already.’
‘And you would not be so hot under the collar, Miss Helen Follet, if you didn’t already think more about Lord Winterson than you let on. You may be able to cut a wheedle with some folk and bamboozle others into thinking that you hold him in aversion, young lady, but I haven’t been a dressmaker all these years without discovering where women wear their hearts as well as their hats. But if you’re quite determined to play the martyr, then don’t let me stop you, only don’t ask why we have so few orders from February until Easter, will you?’
‘Oh, Prue!’ I wailed, thoroughly exasperated. ‘Do try to understand.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Better than you think. Now be quick and write that notice for the window, then let’s get some work done, shall we?’
So I wrote:
Madame Helene, of Follet and Sanders, Blake Street, begs to inform the Nobility, Gentry and Ladies visiting York that her Show Rooms are now open with a choice selection of Millinery from Paris, Gloves and Bonnets from one guinea. Mechelin, Lisle and Valenciennes laces, Real Brussels lace, Bobbin net veils and squares, also satins, bombasins, velvets and sheer muslins. Dresses for Weddings and Mourning made in the first style and a perfect fit insured. Executed with dispatch.
An Indoor Apprentice Wanted.
Placing the notice inside the window, I wondered if we might have an application from a fourteen-year-old whose life had taken an unexpected turn, as mine had.
The day was busy with clients released by the thaw from the big freeze, all expecting their orders to be ready in record time as if we, not they, had time to make up. The ‘Nelson Fashion’ was all the rage since the victor’s tragic death at Trafalgar in the previous October. Before that, it had been the Lady Hamilton style, an empire line in white satin, gauze and muslin with the hair cut close around the ears, and no hat. Now, the demand was for imitations of Emma’s white satin trimmed with gold, silver or lace, and a turban embroidered with ‘Nelson’ topped with white plumes.
The newest February edition of Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine showed the most recent ‘Trafalgar Dress’, which so far I had kept out of the shop. Our embroiderers were working day and night ornamenting every border with festoons and coronets, Nelson’s name, ships and flags, anchors and badges, and even a newfangled stitch that took far too long. Black-edged fans, ribbons and shawls, handkerchiefs and headgear, reticules and gloves: one could dress from head to toe à la Nelson.
I took Bell’s Court home with me, with Prue’s last parting shot resounding in my conscience about the Valentine’s ball and the renewed surge of patronage that would be ours as a result of my wearing one of her gowns. Always in the very latest mode, my ballgowns had been the best possible advertisement ever since I’d been allowed to wear them. Now, they were my own property, and who was I to complain when our wealthiest clients requested copies? To a provincial business like ours, that was worth much.
* * *
With little Jamie snuggling on my lap, we leafed through the pages of drawings, giving each of the toffee-nosed models an appropriate name. ‘That one,’ said the little fellow, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his night-shirt, ‘is Miss Mooney. She’s all in white. Mama, wear that one.’ He tapped the long feather boa. ‘Worm,’ he said, yawning. He looked good enough to eat—warm, soft and sleepy-eyed.
‘What does Goody think?’ I said, glancing at his nurse. It was not the first time I had asked her opinion about such things, but on this occasion she appeared to see that it was not so much the style we were discussing as the propriety of me attending a ball.
‘Mmm,’ she said, smiling gently, confirming what I thought. ‘It’s tricky, isn’t it, ma’am? A mourning ballgown for a function one is hardly expected to attend. However,’ she continued, ‘there’s the obligation to one’s business partner, for one thing. For another, a fashionable ballgown could be contrived to reflect mourning for both Lord Nelson and for a loved one. And for another, it is quite possible to attend a ball without taking part in the dancing. Many ladies go only to be seen and to socialise, ma’am, as I’m sure you’re aware. It would not be remarked upon, in your case.’
‘So,’ I said. ‘Is it to be black, or white?’
‘Both,’ she replied, smiling at my acceptance. ‘Keep it ambiguous, I always say. Shall I take Master Jamie up now?’
I was glad, in a way, that the decision had almost been made for me. I say ‘almost’ because, in my heart, I welcomed a chance to dress up and spend an evening in good company, meeting old acquaintances and shedding my cares for a few glamorous hours. I could tell myself that I was doing Prue a favour, but the truth was that Linas’s death had cut me adrift again, unsettling me in a way that nothing else had done, not even my father’s sudden death. Could there have been something in what Prue said about wearing my heart for all to see? Was that really what I’d been doing?
Chapter Seven
In that first week of the thaw, I felt as if my concerns were quietly breeding, growing all the more irritating for my inability to decide what to do about them. It was not like me to be so undecided.
For my mother’s progressive illness I could do little except visit her as often as I was able and hope to be there when she needed me. On the more immediate problem of Pierre, I would have welcomed some informed advice rather than the heavily biased opinion Prue had offered me. She was, quite naturally, in favour of leaving things as they were, but I could see all too clearly that to do so was running a serious risk not only to ourselves and our business, but also to Jamie. While Linas lived, the risk had somehow seemed less of a threat.
Smuggling was illegal, I knew that. Along with thousands of otherwise law-abiding people, I was breaking the law. But Pierre’s last consignment had indicated what I had not suspected before, that he was dealing in more than exotic fabrics, and that perhaps he
was doing it for my sake, hoping to place me in his debt. If that was so, now was the time to call a halt before it was too late.
If it had been left entirely to me, I would have dealt with the problem at a sedate pace, in my own time. But once again Fate took a hand in things, setting the machinery in motion and taking no account of the inappropriate timing. We were leaning over the stone balustrade of the Ouse Bridge, Jamie, Mrs Goode, Debbie and I, to watch the swollen brown waters shoot below us at an incredible speed, the swirling satin surface wrinkling only inches away from the top of each arch. All along the banks as far as we could see, the flood had reached across the staithes and the new tree-lined walk, pushing back into the lanes on both sides, flooding houses. Debris and boats piled up together with tree trunks tossed like matchsticks upon the roaring torrent. Jamie, clinging tightly to my neck, was fascinated. On the bridge behind us, horses and carriages splashed through the water and mud, some of them loaded with baggage and furniture. A voice broke through the general din. ‘Miss Follet, this is too dangerous. The water is still rising.’
Contrarily, my emotions wavered between elation and defiance, for he was one of the concerns I didn’t know what to do about. My small son, however, suffered from no such conflict. ‘Uncaburl!’ he yelped, struggling against me, leaning out heavily with arms like reaching tentacles. ‘Uncaburl, hold me.’ The changeover was happening, whether I liked it or not.
I watched Jamie cling to him with a look of triumph on his little face. ‘We’re in no danger,’ I said, not best pleased at having to justify myself.
‘No, of course not. But I think you should come away now.’
His calmness, I knew, was for Jamie’s sake, but when he turned and strolled off with my child in his arms, knowing that I would follow come hell or high water, it was as if he knew exactly how to lead me in any direction without the slightest fear of argument, either now or in the future. ‘Where are you going?’ I called, beckoning to Mrs Goode and Debbie.
He had the grace to wait for me, then. And he was smiling. Both of them were. Conspiring. Father and son, as alike as two peas. My heart flipped and twisted, acknowledging the deep yearning of my womb to be filled with more babies, more warm, defenceless, soft pink creatures to suckle, to adore. His babies. More Jamies to replenish me and make me whole and fruitful, to depend on me alone. I am not usually so tearful, but at that moment he must have caught a quick watery flash along my lower eyelid before I could catch it with a finger.
His smile vanished. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, very quietly. ‘Just stay close. We’ll keep to the higher ground, I think. Coney Street will soon be awash so we’ll go along Davygate instead. I have some visitors who want to see you.’
‘Who?’ I croaked. ‘The last visitor you had I didn’t want to meet.’
‘Mutual friends. They went to Blake Street first, then to me at Stonegate. So I came to find you.’
‘You found us, Uncaburl!’ Jamie cried, proudly.
‘Yes, little one.’
There was no more conversation as we walked in single file through the watery streets, slippery with slush and silt, we women picking up our skirts although it was too late to make much difference. Approaching the space known as Thursday Market where many lanes met, the aroma of roasting coffee wafted out through the open doors of coffee houses where men came and went. My eyes were on the conditions underfoot, but Jamie was like an eagle on a cliff. ‘Uncapare!’ he yelled. ‘Mama, look! It’s Uncapare!’
I looked up, sure of some mistake. I would have to apologise. Two men had just emerged from the Davygate Coffee House ahead of us and were walking in our direction, their heads bent, deep in conversation. One of them was unmistakably Pierre Follet. Here, in York. And I would be obliged to introduce him. This was just the kind of thing I could have done without.
Hearing his name, Pierre looked up, first in astonishment and then with indecision, then with a quick word to send his companion off hastily in the opposite direction. His eyes darted uncertainly over Jamie in the care of a stranger, changing to relief and warmth as he saw my smile. Between us, his answering smile said, we can bluff this out.
As usual, I greeted him with a kiss to both cheeks and was pleased when he placed a kiss gallantly upon my hand. I was even more pleased when he spoke in French, which I had no doubt Winterson would understand. Pierre’s drab coat and grey knee-breeches reeked of tobacco smoke.
Leaning out of his nest, Jamie insisted on hugging Pierre’s head, thereby enforcing some kind of informal introduction between the two ‘uncas’. Knowing that I would be on safe ground here, I took the plunge. ‘Will you allow me to introduce my cousin to you, my lord? Monsieur Follet lives with my family in Bridlington. Pierre, this is Lord Winterson, Mr Monkton’s brother.’ I saw no reason to go into detail about the exact relationship, using the term ‘cousin’in its loosest form. My father’s family had been known as Follethorpe for three generations, now.
‘Monsieur,’ said Winterson. Speaking in faultless French, he asked Pierre if he was staying in York long, how bad were the roads to Brid, and was there any better news of Miss Follet’s mother? It was a catch, I knew, to see how Pierre would describe her health, though I resented Winterson using such a device to expose his doubts.
Pierre put on a grave face. ‘Madame Follet has been very unwell for more than a year, my lord,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to call on her usual apothecary on Petergate. He’s preparing something stronger to deal with the pain.’
‘Did you intend to pay us a visit before you return?’ I said.
‘Not this time, ma chère. Forgive me. Time is short.’
Jamie pouted. ‘Come with us, Uncapare,’ he pleaded. ‘We’re going to Papa’s house.’
Sitting aloft in Winterson’s arms, their faces a few inches apart, only a blind man could have missed the likeness between father and son, even with that age difference. In one respect, it was unfortunate that Jamie still referred to Stonegate as ‘Papa’s house’ for that would take some time to change. But for him to say it to Pierre, who knew that Winterson now owned it, was particularly ill fated and guaranteed to set the cat among the pigeons.
Pierre’s eyes darted between them, comparing, recognising each similarity, for although he had never met Linas, he knew that the twin brothers were not identical. This was disastrous. His refusal came as no surprise. ‘Ah…petit Jamie,’ he said, ‘I must take some medicine to Nana Damzell. She’s waiting for it. Next time, yes?’
Jamie nodded. I took the cue, gratefully. ‘Send me word, Pierre, won’t you? Give her my love. And the boys too.’
‘Indeed I will.’ He bowed, but for me there was no smile, only a cool, guarded glint in his eyes that I recognised and felt deeply, like a reproach. For Jamie, he had a smile and a kiss to the tiny waving fingers. For Winterson, he had a brief nod and, ‘My lord’, before he turned away.
‘Safe journey, monsieur,’ called Winterson. ‘You’ll be home before dark, I hope?’
Waving a careless hand, Pierre slewed round. ‘Oh…easily,’ he called back. Instantly, he saw his mistake reflected in my eyes, but he could do nothing about it but shrug and walk on. It was already mid-day, and no one could have covered the forty miles to Brid before darkness fell, especially in those conditions. Foss Beck Common was a possibility. We watched him go, swinging away down the cobbled street and disappearing round the corner, ignoring Jamie’s waves. I felt a cold chill grasp at my arms and shoulders.
‘Well, well,’ Winterson drawled. ‘What an interesting family you have, Miss Follet.’
‘Oh, not now,’ I said, under my breath. ‘Let’s go and visit the visitors. One fiasco at a time, please.’
Even so, as we drew level with the coffee house from which Pierre had come, Winterson slowed down to take a long look through the bow window where, inside, a grey fog of smoke hung over the tables of bent heads poring over newspapers and broadsheets, pens and papers, copper coffee pots, cups and the inevitable clutter of plates and clay pipes. I
t was the kind of place I had never associated with Pierre, an outdoor man. Yet he had admitted to contacts in York and surely that was the kind of venue where he would pick up news of his homeland. In a coffee house, his nationality would arouse little comment when so many Frenchmen had fled to the safety of England in the pre-Napoleon years. Yet I would like to have known why he had time to spend there, and who was the companion he didn’t want us to meet.
I would rather have gone back to Blake Street instead of the disorder of Stonegate, but I was pleasantly relieved to find that Winterson’s visitors were high on Jamie’s list of favourites. ‘Uncamedith!’ he cried, hurling himself at the young curate’s black-stockinged legs, clinging like a limpet. ‘Where’s Aunt Cynthie?’
Effectively hobbled, Medworth Monkton picked the limpet off, laughing. ‘Upstairs, young man, telling the workmen off for sitting down on the job. As usual.’
If Linas had been the worn-out racehorse and his twin the well-toned hunter, then the younger Medworth could have been compared to a sturdy northern fell-pony, strong and energetic and with a forelock of dark hair that had apparently refused all attempts to imitate Brutus. Pleasant looking he was, too, but lacking the heart-stopping masculine virility of his elder brother that riveted the eyes of women and made their minds wander off the subject, whatever that was. They stood together, the three of them, and though Medworth held Jamie, it was as obvious as night follows day which one was the father.
We stood in the dining room, breathing in the odour of new paint, where the walls had been lightened with spring tones of pale yellow and white, though the floor was still bare and the windows curtainless. Already, the improvement was startling, the room had expanded.
Medworth’s wife, a merry motherly lady two or three years older than her husband, came down to join us with a sparkle in her eyes and the rosy cheeks of one who has just given someone else’s workmen a dressing down. Warmly, she embraced me and told me how she had advised Winterson that a deep red carpet would be best in a dining room to absorb any spillages, a suggestion that appeared to meet with no particular enthusiasm. They were a happily outspoken pair, beloved by their parishoners as much for their kindness as for their lack of pretensions. Cynthia was expecting their third child, otherwise, she told us, they would have defied convention and bought tickets for the St Valentine’s Day ball at the weekend. ‘I may have been able to manage a stately gavotte,’ she said rather wistfully, lifting a holland cover off one of the chairs, ‘but not an eightsome reel. Oh, I do admire these seats, Burl dear. I wonder…?’
Marrying the Mistress Page 10