“Why didn’t Maw come with you?” Eddie asked. He had never been able to say “grandmother.” Only “Maw” came out of his mouth as a small child, and that she had been ever since.
“Maw is busy working on that rag rug she’s making for you,” Philip said. Kissing the three of them and walking over to his son, he took Matthew’s arm, and led him into the hall.
“Maude will be all right, Matt, just make sure she gets plenty of liquids, and don’t let her leave that bed for a few days. Oh, and keep the room cool, as you have it now.”
“I will,” Matthew replied, and gave his father a questioning look. “Is there something special in that raspberry vinegar Mum makes?”
Philip couldn’t help laughing. “No. Just cherry juice, as I told James.” He eyed his son, amusement still flickering on his face. “Fancy you asking me that at the age of thirty-seven. Has anybody in this family ever died after drinking it?”
Matthew joined in his laughter. “Oh, Dad, you are a card. There’s nobody like you.”
Philip drew his son closer and gave him a bear hug. “Have a good night, son,” he murmured and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
* * *
It was a nice evening and Philip decided to walk back to Regent’s Park and the elegant Nash-designed house where he worked and lived with Esther and the Montague family.
His thoughts lingered on Maude. His lovely daughter-in-law was a bit more frail than she looked, had a tendency to catch cold easily. Bronchitis had felled her last winter, and in consequence they fussed over her, and perhaps too much. Also, a sick member of a family was a drain on everyone; most working-class people like Philip felt the same way. Fortunately, he and Esther could afford a doctor, but most of the lower classes couldn’t, which was why staying healthy was such a huge priority in their lives. They endeavored to protect themselves from germs as best they could.
He knew how lucky he was in so many different ways. He had been blessed with kind, loving, good-hearted parents, who had set him on the best course when they encouraged him to go into service.
His father, Edward Falconer, had owned a small grocery shop in Rochester, Kent. His parents, his brother, Tom, and he had lived in a flat above it. Being somewhat crowded never ever bothered them since they were a loving family and enjoyed each other’s company.
It was his mother, Olive, who had recognized he would make a good butler if he had the correct training. She knew he was efficient, well organized, had good manners, charm, and a special way with people.
It was she who suggested he visit Fountains Court nearby to seek employment. He did so and was taken on immediately by the Honorable Arthur Montague, who was struck by his politeness, pleasant voice, and good looks. He had risen through the ranks with ease and rapidity, learning about wine, food, and clothing in order to improve himself.
Philip had always thought that Matthew took after his own father, Edward, wanting to be a salesman, and had rented stalls. Now James was following in their footsteps. But his dream was not of a little shop in a country town or stalls in a market, but a grand edifice like Fortnum & Mason—catering to the rich.
Hearing James’s plan today had given Philip genuine pleasure, and Esther as well. There was no doubt in their minds that their grandson would succeed. And they would encourage him.
James not only had a prodigious intelligence, he was clever, smart, had enormous ambition and drive. These two particular characteristics were essential to success. Anyone aiming high who did not own them was doomed to failure.
He walked along, striding out at a brisk pace, and decided he would select some of his books on the red wines of Provence for James to read. That was how he would begin to teach his grandson … lead him into the wonderful world of vintage wines.
After a while Philip had to slow his pace. There were too many people on the streets tonight. Men and women hurrying home after a long workday; couples were strolling along in a more leisurely fashion, obviously out for an evening of entertainment at a restaurant or the music hall.
There were plenty of hansom cabs around, and for a split second he thought of taking one, but changed his mind. He was almost home. It would be a waste of money.
Philip loved London, thought of it as the capital of the world. They had a queen-empress in Victoria, the aging widow, and Britain was the richest and greatest nation on the planet. Yet this age of Victoria, momentous in so many ways, was also a hungry and deprived age. Millions of its citizens went to bed with empty bellies.
Gladstone, Disraeli, and Salisbury, politicians all, raged and argued in Parliament about the terrible conditions, but did nothing positive to change the game as far as he could see. Certainly there was nothing much he could do either, except to help a friend in need from time to time. And this he did whenever he was asked. His conscience ruled his head and his heart. And at night he prayed for better days ahead for the common people of England.
* * *
That night James found it hard to go to sleep. He felt calmer about his mother and knew the doctor had been correct. She had caught cold, and it was nothing worse. What kept him awake was the sudden worry about his father … how would Dad react when he told him about his dream? Now he had confided in his grandparents, he thought he would have to explain to Matthew that he did not want to work on the stalls at the Malvern forever. He had ambitions of his own … of being a merchant prince. Even his grandmother had brought that matter up to him as they had been driving over to Camden Town in the hansom cab. He didn’t want to upset his father, but he knew within himself that he would have to follow his dream. It was like a burning flame inside of him.
Knowing his father the way he did, understanding that he was a fair man, one who saw everyone’s point of view, James was sure he would not object to his leaving the stalls.
Not yet, of course. He would have to be seventeen or eighteen before he could think of moving on. Could his father manage without him? Would he use Eddie? He would need help. Perhaps he could hire somebody.
He tossed and turned in his bed, his mind whirling with dire thoughts. How would he approach Mr. Henry Malvern? The owner of the Malvern Market was a pleasant man, usually came over to speak to his father, and always had a word for him. But James was smart enough to know that this didn’t mean a thing. Mr. Malvern was pleased how well his father ran their stalls, had made a success of them, but that didn’t mean Mr. Malvern would give him a job at the Piccadilly office just like that. Why would he? Why should he?
And there was another thing. He was a working-class boy. Might Mr. Malvern think he was stepping out of his place? Maybe. Maybe not.
An education was what he needed. James had been to school. He could read and write very well; he knew his geography and English history. And he was a dab hand when it came to arithmetic. The teachers had told his parents he was gifted and an excellent pupil.
Yet he still needed to know more. Knowledge was power; his grandmother always said that. It came to him in a flash. He would speak to his grandfather, who was going to teach him all about the noble grape and the great wines of France. That’s how Grandpapa had put it. And lend him books about wine. He knew his grandfather would be pleased to lend him books about many other things as well. There was a big library at the Nash house in Regent’s Park.
Lady Agatha would surely agree to lend him a book or two. Or three. He would take care of them, handle them with respect.
He let out a long sigh. Books. That was his answer for gaining more knowledge. He had to work hard in the next few years, bettering himself in every possible way he could. When he eventually went to see Mr. Malvern he had to be absolutely acceptable.
That was the new goal of James Lionel Falconer. Having found the answer to his problem, he relaxed and soon fell asleep. He would awaken the next morning with new determination to be the best. And later in the week, he would take a deep breath and tell his father that he had to follow his dream.
Part Two
NEW HO
RIZONS
LONDON–KENT
1887
Six
Alexis Malvern stood in front of the cheval mirror positioned near the window in her bedroom. She studied herself for a moment, turning to one side and then the other, and decided she would pass muster.
Some time ago she had given up wearing crinolines, except for very special evening occasions. She felt they were too cumbersome for her and the life she led. Instead she favored the crinolette hoop, made of steel and cotton, a framework worn under the back of the skirt only. This meant that the skirt of a gown was slim at the front and the sides, with a big bustle at the back, supported by the hoop tied around the waist.
This afternoon her gown was made of a rich cream silk. It had a high neck, long sleeves, and a tight bodice that accentuated her slender waist. From the waist down, the front of the skirt was flat, with pleats at each side, which, in turn, became the bustle.
Her clothes were designed by Madame Valance, a Frenchwoman, who was everyone’s favorite at the moment. Her clothes were elegant and stylish and not as flamboyant and flashy as some made by other fashion designers in London.
Walking over to the bed, Alexis picked up the hat which had been made to match the gown. It was a cream silk bowler, but more of an oval shape than round like the kind men wore. Trimming the rim of the hat were lengths of knotted tulle, tied in a bow at the back.
Placing it on top of her auburn curls, Alexis tilted it to one side, set it at a jaunty angle, and stuck a hat pin in for safety. Now she was ready to leave at last.
Picking up her reticule, she walked to the door. She paused for a moment in the corridor, knowing she ought to go to her father’s study to say good-bye.
But she was reluctant to do so. There had been a breach in their relationship that troubled them both, and it had now gone on far too long. Perhaps this afternoon was the right time to heal that breach, and get them back to their normal relationship. But how would she begin? She stood there, thinking, knowing it was the proper thing to do, if only she could find the right words.
* * *
Although she did not know it, her father was having similar thoughts as he sat at the desk in his study. He wondered if he should go up to her room to speak to her and attempt reconciliation. Not that they had really quarreled, and they were polite and civil with each other on a daily basis. Yet there was a coolness on her part, and he was hurting from it.
Henry sighed under his breath, rose, and walked across the room, looking out at the garden—ruminating about the problem. It was Saturday, July 30, 1887, and a glorious day, filled with sunshine. Yes, he wanted her back very badly, loathed her emotional withdrawal from him.
Henry Ashton Malvern was not exactly a self-made man. Rather he had taken his father’s small and badly run property business and turned it into a flourishing enterprise. And a big moneymaker. He had become an extremely powerful and wealthy man.
His older brother, Joshua, was his full partner in Malvern and Malvern, but did not have any ambition, no dreams of glory like Henry always had. It was he who had been the driving force behind the business, just as his daughter was now. She was so like him in many ways.
She was Henry’s only child, the third member of the Malvern team, and had worked by her father’s side from the age of sixteen, having refused to go to finishing school in Switzerland.
Her mother had died when Alexis was eight years old, and it was Henry who had raised her. She would often tease him and say that he had brought her up to be a boy. Certainly she was as intelligent, hardworking, and smart as any man.
Alexis was his sole heir, and one day the business would be hers. She knew every aspect of it, and now, at twenty-five, she could take control of it if needs be. He had never known anyone more talented at business than his daughter; he had great respect and admiration for her.
Quite aside from this, Alexis was a rather beautiful young woman, with her auburn hair, deep green eyes, and English-rose complexion. Because of her looks and her charming manner, she had had many suitors over the last few years. None of them appealed to her; also, she was wary of marriage, knowing that a husband would be the head of the family and would perhaps take control of her inheritance and the business. Frightening prospects to her.
And so, a few months ago, she had told her father that she would never get married, and had given him the reasons why. The prospect of not having a son-in-law or grandchildren appalled Henry. He also worried about the future of Malvern and Malvern after he was dead and Alexis grew older. Who would be her heirs?
A long and difficult discussion had ensued, had brought about this awful breach in their loving relationship, a situation both of them genuinely hated. Nothing like this had ever happened; they felt isolated from each other.
There was a light knock at the door and, as Henry swung away from the window, Alexis walked into his study. He was so struck by her appearance, he couldn’t speak for a moment. This afternoon she was breathtakingly lovely. The cream silk gown was a wonderful foil for her natural coloring, which appeared more vivid than ever and was most arresting.
“Do you have a moment, Papa?” Alexis asked, closing the door behind her, walking toward him, smiling warmly.
“Of course I do,” he answered, smiling back. “I was about to come and find you, before you left for your ladies’ tea. I hope you told Bolland to have the carriage ready for you.”
“I did, Papa. Not that I’m going very far, only to Delia Talston’s house in Belgravia, but I can’t very well walk through the streets in a cream-colored dress. It’ll soon be dirty.”
“And I might add, looking the way you do … very comely, indeed, my dear.”
A faint smile crossed her face, and she sat down on the edge of a chair. After a moment she said, “I’ve been wondering how to start this conversation, Papa, and decided just to … well, blurt it out. So, I want you to know that first of all, I’m sorry for my coolness and the break in our loving relationship. Truly, truly sorry, and I apologize for hurting you. I would like us both to forget about our … disagreement, shall we call it? Let us put it behind us, be close again, as we’ve been all of my life.”
“I want that more than anything in the world, Alexis. Thank you for taking the lead. I was wondering myself how to broach the matter to you a few minutes ago. You see, I’d come to understand that you must live your life the way you wish. After all, it is your life, not mine. You must be happy and fulfilled, and if the business is enough for you, then so be it. It is your choice.”
“Thank you, Papa. It’s not that I have anything against men, you know. I rather like them, enjoy their company. But I can’t become someone’s possession or have another person rule me. I need my freedom and I need to work in a business I love. I’m not cut out to be a housewife.”
Henry chuckled and held out his hands, pulled her to her feet. Automatically, she went into her father’s arms. He held her close for a moment, relief suffusing him. His eyes filled with tears and for a moment he was overcome by emotion. He kissed her cheek, then released her.
Walking across to his desk, clearing his throat, he said over his shoulder, “I know you and Delia wish to launch that charity you dreamed up together last year, and that’s what this tea is all about today? I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are,” Alexis answered, staring after him, wondering what he was getting at.
He looked across at her and showed her an envelope. “There is a check in here which I wrote two weeks ago. I want to be the first to make a donation to your charity and wish you great success.”
Gliding across the room, Alexis accepted the envelope. She looked at the check. To her amazement it was for a thousand pounds. “Papa! How generous of you. Thank you, thank you so much.”
He gazed at her, happy that she was happy and that their life together would now be on an even keel again. And Alexis was thinking exactly the same thing.
* * *
Delia Talston greeted Alexis in the peach
-colored drawing room of her mansion, a smile of approval on her face. “You look quite divine today, Alexis. No wonder men fall all over you. I would too, if I were a man.”
Alexis laughed. “I should wear cream all the time, since it seems to engender compliments.” Glancing around, she said, “I see I’m the first, so let me give you this before the others arrive.” Opening her reticule, she handed the envelope to Delia. “Look inside. It’s a check from Papa.”
Delia raised a brow as she took the envelope from her. “Have you finally had reconciliation? Oh, I do hope so.”
“Everything is back to normal. I apologized to Papa just before I left, and he handed me the check. You’ll see he made it out two weeks ago.”
“And for a thousand pounds! How wonderful of him. Richard gave me a check this morning for five hundred pounds, and my father did the same last week. So far we now have three thousand pounds for our kitty, because of other small donations I’ve received. Please thank your father, and I shall write him a note.”
“I think we’re off to a good start.” Alexis sat down on the edge of a chair, and went on, “I’ve always loved this room since you painted it peach a few years ago. It has worn well, I must say.”
“Become too worn, I think. I was wondering the other day if I should create a new look.”
“Oh no, don’t do that. The peach has grown mellow and warm, and on a day like this the room is so welcoming with the sunshine streaming in on us,” Alexis answered.
“The Persian’s somewhat tired,” Delia murmured, glancing down at the large burgundy rug patterned in cream and moss green.
“Leave everything alone!” Alexis exclaimed. “Anyway, you won’t have time. You and I both are going to be rather busy—”
Alexis broke off as Parker, the butler, brought in another guest, announcing, “Mrs. Clive, madam.”
Delia stood up and went to greet Vera Clive, an old friend, who shared her feelings about the plight of poor women in London.
Master of His Fate Page 4