Mrs Boots: A heartwarming, page-turner inspired by the true story of Florence Boot, the woman behind Boots (Mrs Boots, Book 1)

by Deborah Carr

‘I heard he owns shops,’ Florence said, trying to work out why this man was so important to their father. ‘Maybe that’s why he wants us to meet him when he arrives.’

  Amy stared down at the cover of the book in her hand before glaring at Florence. ‘Father will be furious if he discovers you’ve taken this from the new stock. You know we are forbidden to read the new stock. And there’s a long waiting list for this title.’

  Typical Amy not to allow her to get away with doing something she shouldn’t.

  Florence couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. She hated being caught out borrowing the books. Her father didn’t mind too much if they were from old stock but insisted that she and Amy never bought the new books to read, at least until the rush from their customers had ended.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ she said trying to defend herself, ‘but I’ve heard so much about The Mayor of Casterbridge and I simply couldn’t wait any longer to read it.’

  Amy closed the bedroom door and leant against it, lowering her voice. ‘That’s as maybe, but we can’t spare any copies of this one. You know only half the shipment arrived and we need every spare copy for those who’ve been waiting to read it.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I’d spotted you taking a peek at the beginning of the story earlier when you were supposed to be unpacking the delivery.’

  Florence felt her face reddening. ‘I had intended returning it by tomorrow.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have borrowed it in the first place. It won’t be new if it’s already been read.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Florence replied, irritated. ‘Stop being so pious. We both know you’ve done the same thing, many times. Anyway, I can’t see that I’ll have the opportunity to read it by tomorrow now. I’m meeting friends to see a play at the Theatre Royal later this evening.’

  Amy narrowed her eyes. ‘And will Albert be one of those friends?’

  Florence hated it when her sister teased her Albert. Amy knew well enough that they were merely friends and had been since childhood. He was fun to be with and made her laugh. She knew her mother suspected they were secretly courting, or maybe she simply hoped it was the case. Florence hated deception, but on this occasion if it kept her mother happy and also from trying to persuade her to find someone to marry, then it was worth it.

  And Albert was fun to be with. He treated her as an equal and she knew they both enjoyed their mini debates on current events and novels. How many of her friends’ husbands could she honestly say that about, she mused. None, she was certain of that.

  She thought of the downtrodden women of her age and younger that she’d seen coming into Rowes. Initially unmarried, then excited to be courted by a man they had hopes for. Florence thought of the many of them with fake smiles, hiding their disappointment of the future they had hoped to enjoy. Or she was being cynical, as Amy had hinted she might be.

  She loved her father very much, but he was definitely the head of the household, as he should be, but the older she became the harder it was to be told what she could and could not do each day. Why would she swap one man controlling her life for another? It didn’t make any sense. As far as she was concerned, marriage was not a state to which she aspired.

  She realised her sister had been speaking. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Will Albert be attending the play with you at the Theatre Royal tonight?’

  She suspected she had missed something else her sister had said, but didn’t say so. ‘Yes, he will be.’

  Amy handed the book back to her. ‘I think you and Albert are well suited. I know Mother is secretly pleased that you’ve finally seen sense about your intention to stay a spinster.’

  Florence narrowed her eyes at her sister. ‘Stop it. You know there’s nothing of the kind going on between us.’

  ‘I do. However, you two shouldn’t forget that his mother is one of our mother’s oldest friends,’ she said, her tone one of warning. ‘When either of them do finally discover that there’s less to your friendship than they imagine … well, you’ll probably be facing a bit of trouble.’

  She didn’t like to think of her mother being upset due to something she had done, but, as her mother kept reminding her, at twenty-three she was at risk of ‘being left on the shelf’. It was somewhere that did not concern Florence; the prospect of being married and dictated to by a man horrified her far more than an unmarried status.

  ‘You know full well that I have no intention of ever marrying.’ She scowled. ‘The thought of being any man’s chattel is too dreadful.’ She stared at her unmarried sister only one year younger than herself. ‘Why doesn’t Mother make such a fuss about you? It’s always me she seems to worry herself about. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t mind finding a beau and she knows that. She simply worries about your need for independence.’

  Florence couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for the concern she gave her mother, but she had made up her mind long ago that marriage wasn’t for her. The thought of asking permission from a man in order to make decisions was too ghastly. It was bad enough having to be told what to do by her parents.

  ‘Come along,’ Amy said, handing the book back to her and opening the bedroom door; ‘I can hear Mother’s voice getting more irate.’

  Florence knew when she was beaten. She raised the book to her nose and breathed in the familiar scent. Surely there was no smell more heavenly than that of a book? Hearing her sister mumble something under her breath, she picked up the new bookmark that she had treated herself to from her previous week’s wages and slipped it between the pages. The Mayor of Casterbridge would have to wait.

  ‘Florence, answer me,’ her mother shouted, sounding, Florence thought, more het up than usual. She stood up and went to check her hair in the mirror.

  ‘Sorry, Mother.’ Florence stood up and went to lean over the banister. She gave her mother an apologetic look. ‘Amy and I are on our way down now.’

  ‘This is Mr Boot,’ her father said, one hand holding the lapel of his waistcoat and the other indicating a man with a friendly smile that reached his eyes. ‘He’ll be staying in Jersey for a few weeks.’

  Florence watched her parents greet the new guest. He was handsome in his own way, she mused, with his greying hair and piercing hazel eyes. She presumed him to be about ten or fifteen years older than her. There was something about him that she couldn’t help liking, which seemed odd as he hadn’t even opened his mouth to say anything yet.

  He took her sister’s hand and gave a slight bow before coming to Florence.

  ‘This is my daughter, Florence. She and Amy assist me at Rowe’s, our stationer’s downstairs.’ He regarded his family. ‘Please, take a seat everyone. Mr Boot is also in retail,’ he explained. ‘He has several shops of his own. Mainly in Nottingham, I believe?’

  Mr Boot smiled. ‘That’s correct. I ran them with my mother up until last year when she sadly passed.’

  It dawned on Florence who this man was and why the name seemed familiar. ‘You’re Jane’s brother?’

  He nodded, his smile widening.

  Her father gave her a questioning look. ‘You know Mr Boot’s sister?’

  ‘Yes, Father. We met last year when she was on the island. We attended functions together. I introduced you and Mother to her.’

  ‘I met her, too,’ Amy said. ‘Several times. She came to the shop and bought—’ she thought for a moment ‘—an artist’s pad, some watercolours and brushes, if I remember correctly.’

  Mr Boot laughed. ‘Yes, that’ll be Jane. She was most upset to have left her paints behind when she travelled. She wrote to me during her stay here recounting visits to Rowes. She insisted that if I visit Jersey, I must look up your family and introduce myself to her good friend, Miss Florence Rowe.’ He stared at Florence thoughtfully for a brief time, as if recalling his sister’s words. ‘She told me that you showed her much of the island and ensured her time here was thoroughly enjoyable.’

  Florence recalled the friendly, ch
arming woman who she’d befriended and how well they had got along. ‘She told me about your mother’s passing,’ she said, unsure whether she should be mentioning it, but aware that Mr Boot and his mother had worked closely together in their shops since his father’s death when he was only ten. ‘I was sorry to hear of your loss.’

  His expression darkened and for a moment she thought she’d been too personal. Then, he cleared his throat. ‘It was. I think it was doubly difficult as we’d also worked together. Jane insisted I take time away from the business to visit Jersey for a holiday. She thought the sea air would do me good.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve only been here a couple of hours and already I feel somewhat refreshed.’

  ‘You haven’t been to Jersey before, Mr Boot?’ Amy asked.

  ‘This is my first time. I haven’t thought to take time away from my business before now.’ He smiled. ‘I’m told the weather is always sunny in Jersey, and the milk and new potatoes are the best in the world.’

  Everyone laughed. She thought back to the stormy weather they had experienced for the previous few days, which had cut the island off from the mainland and France when the ferries to Southampton and St Malo had to be cancelled.

  ‘And you wouldn’t be wrong thinking that, most of the time,’ her father said. ‘Although, maybe not so much about the weather. I believe it’s slightly warmer than on the mainland but it can rain here just as much when it chooses to.’

  ‘Usually when you least wish it,’ Florence added.

  Mr Boot smiled at her. It was a friendly smile; she noticed something more behind his eyes than she had expected. Then her father began discussing aspects of Mr Boot’s visit and Florence listened as their guest chatted to her parents. She liked the sound of his voice. She recalled Jane explaining that her accent was an East Midland’s one. It was gentle and different to the voices she usually heard each day. Although, she mused, a lot of those were French, or the locals speaking Jèrriais. It wasn’t surprising, therefore, that they did sound different.

  If what her father was saying were true, which she assumed it was, she had never met anyone as successful as Mr Boot. She liked that he wasn’t boastful or arrogant. He seemed very matter-of-fact, and, by what Jane had said, he didn’t take much time to do anything other than work very hard. Her thoughts were interrupted hearing her father mentioning her name.

  ‘… day off tomorrow and I’m certain she would be delighted to show you some of the sights here on the island. Wouldn’t you, Florence?’

  All thoughts of finishing The Mayor of Casterbridge vanished; however, she found that she didn’t mind nearly as much as she would have expected.

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ she said, smiling at Mr Boot. ‘We could, um—’ she thought quickly, recalling how Jane had mentioned that her brother was sometimes troubled by an ailment, which she believed might be rheumatoid arthritis. If that was the case, then she assumed that walking far would not be something he would wish to do ‘—take the Jersey Railway to St Aubin, if you wish? Or, maybe the Jersey Eastern Railway to Gorey. Whichever you prefer.’

  He rested his hands on his legs and nodded. ‘I will leave the choice to you. Maybe we could do one trip tomorrow and the other on another day?’

  Florence had hoped for some time alone after such a busy early summer at the shop, but expected that time with Mr Boot could also be enjoyable. She did like showing friends who were new to the island the places that she particularly liked.

  ‘I would enjoy that,’ she said. It was only a slight fib, because she would rather have been alone, and she instantly felt mean for her thoughts.

  The mantel clock chimed the hour and Florence and Amy stood. ‘We should return to the shop,’ Amy suggested.

  Mr Boot winced slightly as he stood up. ‘I apologise. I have taken up more of your time that I intended. When would be convenient for me to call on you tomorrow, Miss Rowe?’

  Hoping to make his day as relaxed as possible, Florence said. ‘If you call on me at ten o’clock, then we could make our way the short distance up the road to Snow Hill and catch the train from there to Gorey.’

  The eastern terminus was so much closer than the one for the westbound train. Let the poor man rest as much as possible on his first days here, she thought; after all, it was what he had come to the island to do.

  He gave a slight bow with his head. ‘I shall look forward to our adventure, Miss Rowe. Thank you.’

  Florence stared at him thoughtfully. There was something different about this man, but she couldn’t work out what it might be. She was surprised to realise that she was looking forward to their outing, too. ‘As am I, Mr Boot.’

  She followed Amy from the living room and down to the shop. Father rarely permitted the shop to be closed during the daytime and already Florence could see five disconcerted customers waiting anxiously by the front door.

  Amy rushed over and unlocked it, turning over the closed sign to mark the place open, once again. ‘My apologies for making you wait,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ one of their regular customers – a short, sour-faced elderly woman with an overly large hat – had grumbled.

  ‘Father has an unexpected guest,’ Amy explained, widening her eyes over the woman’s head as the lady marched past her to the display of postcards Florence had put together that morning.

  ‘I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence; I’ve been waiting ten minutes to buy a map from you. This really won’t do.’

  Florence was tempted to give the woman a snappy retort. Their father never let his clients down and would be mortified to think he had upset anyone by his actions. Without having known about Mr Boot’s arrival prior to his appearance, even Florence could tell, simply by her father’s temporary closure of the shop, that he had thought him important.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and just then Amy said, ‘I doubt it will happen again any time soon.’ Her sister looked at the brown wrapping in the lady’s basket. ‘I suspect you were able to choose some nice material from the haberdashers while you waited?’

  The lady beamed at Amy, her complaint forgotten. ‘I did, as a matter of interest. I spotted a fine fabric in their window display and simply had to have it.’

  ‘All is well then,’ Florence said, wanting to be sure the woman didn’t take her complaint to their father when he returned to the shop. She would hate for his day to be ruined by someone else’s criticism.

  ‘It is.’ The woman held up a copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge in her gloved hand. ‘My daughter tells me this book might be something I’d enjoy. What do you think?’

  Florence’s thoughts had been consumed by the unusual man she had met earlier. Hurriedly thinking of a reply, she wondered if the daughter had yet read the book, not minding so much that she had been held back from being able to read more of it by now. ‘I’ve read a little,’ she admitted, ‘and I enjoyed it very much. I’m afraid I’ll need to check we have your name on the list of customers who have ordered the book.’

  She hoped the woman was on the list; the thought that she would have something else to grumble about worried Florence. She took the lady’s name and went to check.

  Movement by the store-front window caught her eye. The front door to their flat was open and she could see her father and Mr Boot speaking outside. She stepped forward into the shadows behind the counter, hoping to watch Mr Boot unobserved. There was a kindness about him that emanated from him as he chatted to her father. For someone who had come to the island to recover from the loss of his mother and overwork, he still displayed a positivity about him that made her smile.

  Mr Boot turned to walk away and, spotting her, waved.

  Mortified, Florence waved back, before lifting her father’s order book diverted her attention back to checking for the customer’s name.

  Florence couldn’t understand why she was acting so strangely. She was usually so contained and sure of herself. There was something about him that intrigued her though. Was it because he
was so successful? No, she was never impressed by that sort of thing. Or simply, she wondered, could it be that he came from a different background to any of the men she had previously come across in her social life? Most of the men she knew worked for a living, and most of them were around her age. Mr Boot had already done very well for himself and was over a decade older than her. Could it be that he was more interesting than the men she knew? Possibly. She wasn’t certain. Either way, she realised she was looking forward to her outing with him the next day, very much so.

  Chapter 3

  They sat opposite one another on the train. Florence was relieved the weather had remained warm and sunny and she had been able to wear her new straw hat for the outing. Not that she expected Mr Boot to have any interest in the latest fashions like she did. Or, maybe the fashions were different in Nottingham; it was a city, after all and not a small island whose connections were mostly closer to France than England.

  Mr Boot seemed more relaxed today, she decided happily. The train slowed to a halt at the Georgetown stop. She realised he was staring at her, and as he smiled at her she couldn’t help thinking what kind eyes he had.

  He cleared his throat. ‘How long does the journey take to Gorey?’ he asked, turning his attention out of the window to the passengers waiting for others to alight before stepping onto the carriage.

  ‘About twenty minutes,’ Florence replied. ‘To be honest it’s a few months since I came this way.’ As she admitted this fact, she couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t made the effort before now. ‘If I want to walk to the sea front, it’s only a couple of minutes from our flat to Havres des Pas. My father doesn’t like me walking alone by the shipyards along that way though, so I temper my outings there, too.’

  ‘I had never thought what it must be like to have daughters before, but I can imagine it must be worrisome for a father when they are independently minded.’

  For a second she wasn’t sure if he was criticising her, then saw the gentle twinkle in his eyes and knew that he was merely thinking of something that had just occurred to him.