by Carol Rivers
As Ettie climbed up on the dicky seat beside Terence she heard the clock strike nine. Soho would be up and bustling, and doubtlessly, a few customers would have turned up at the salon only to be disappointed.
But this didn’t bother her at all; she was happy to have accomplished the mission that Lucas had set her and a smile played on her lips all the way home.
Her amusement deepened as she thought of the two clerks and the under-manager and the way they had almost bumped into one another to rectify the mistake the first clerk had made.
Ettie decided their change in attitude must have come from Terence informing them in the strongest terms of the business they were about to lose.
The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street with all her airs and graces had been given a severe lecture by an unassuming Soho butcher.
Chapter 36
Summer came into full bloom and the streets of Soho filled with tradesmen and opportunists eager to make a quick penny or two. In the heat of the day, the dust rolled over the cobbles and crept in the salon door, so that Ettie spent hours dusting and cleaning, welcoming her customers with the offer of a shady retreat in the smoking room.
On the occasional evening, she strolled down to the green that Clara loved so much. Here, sitting on the bench, she would imagine how she’d rock the baby in the perambulator, listening to the child’s soft mewing.
Whether boy or girl, it didn’t matter. She would love it with all her heart and take care of it when Clara was resting or needing her quiet.
Ettie knew that her affection for little children was born in the orphanage. Often as she sat in the setting sunlight, her mind went back to those days. But she refused to be maudlin for her own happiness would be complete when the family returned to England.
There would be a larder full of fine food waiting. Every surface would be dusted, every floor swept clean. The house would sparkle for Clara. Already in the nursery stood the perambulator; every spoke of its wheels cleaned and oiled and a little frilly cover laid under its hood.
Over the weeks Ettie had added small personal items to the nursery; a child’s hair brush made of bone and painted with fairy figures, a decent soft flannel that Aggie had sold her on the cheap, and a pair of shoes, each hardly larger than a matchbox, made of soft cloth and little bows. She had knitted bonnets and mittens in some white wool that Mrs Buckle had no use for, and sewn pretty cot blankets from floral material discovered in a cupboard in the kitchen. This, she suspected was a remnant from the curtains hanging in her own room. And the crucifix, all shined and silvery, would protect the baby as it grew into a healthy and happy toddler.
The nursery looked so pretty she knew Clara would approve in every respect.
Ettie’s one disappointment was that no letter of reply had arrived from Lucas. She had written to tell him of her adventure to The Old Lady and of Terence’s help in the matter and the successful conclusion to his request. But the days passed and the end of the month drew near.
‘My guess is,’ said Terence one day as he drank his tea, ‘they’ll turn up on the doorstep. Surprise you. All three of them.’
Ettie hadn’t considered this. ‘But the house might not be ready!’ she exclaimed in panic.
Terence laughed his hearty laugh. ‘Young beauty, there’s not a mote of dust on the shelves or a dull corner. The stove don’t look as if it’s been cooked on. See this table here?’ He gestured to the spotless scrubbed wood. ‘Why, I’m afraid to lean my elbow on it!’
Ettie studied the kitchen. Terence was right. She had cleaned it so many times, there was nothing left to clean. The bedrooms were stocked with fresh linen. She never ate in the dining room, but polished the surfaces weekly. The drawing room was the only space she liked and since the nights were so warm, there had not been a fire in the hearth for months.
‘But the larder, Terence, it’s empty.’
‘Don’t fret, I’ll give you the very best cuts the moment they return. Eggs and butter too.’
‘The journey will be long and arduous,’ Ettie persisted. ‘Perhaps two days, even three or four! Will they bring a maid? Or a nanny for the child?’ This, too, was a new thought. Would Lucas have engaged a person to look after the baby?
‘Now, now,’ said Terence, returning his mug to the table and standing up creakily, ‘all those questions will be answered in good time.’ He slapped on his cap and chuckled. ‘Your employer and his wife will approve of every preparation and the infant will turn everyone’s heads and hearts and poor old Terence will be neglected!’
Ettie jumped to her feet. ‘Terence, I’ll never neglect you.’
‘Nor I you, dear girl.’ Whistling a merry tune, he went off through the backyard.
Ettie watched him go, promising herself that the very first ride she gave to the baby in the perambulator, would be to Terence’s shop, the very best butcher in all of Soho.
The next day, just after she had opened the salon, a carriage arrived outside. Ettie was standing behind the counter when she saw it and reached out to steady herself. For there was Michael, sitting proud on the seat of the damson-red brougham, a crop in one hand and the reins in the other. From the carriage window, the young girl gazed out, prettier than ever, her sweet face framed by pale honey curls and a bonnet of crimson satin.
Michael jumped down and lowered the set of small steps, his smiling, confident face turned towards his passenger.
Here was her Michael, and her heart throbbed at the thought!
What will I do if he comes in? She considered. Do I smile and greet him? Or do I pretend not to know him? No, I can never do that, she answered herself, not even if he is ashamed to acknowledge me. But why should he be ashamed? another voice demanded. Only the years separate you, not the affection that surely must still be in his heart.
The young girl, all dressed in silks of lilac and deeper purples that swirled in full skirts around her dainty feet, held out her hand to be assisted into the salon.
Her hand was taken – and firmly. Arms brushed, a coy smile here, another there and mischievous eyes yet again held her driver’s gaze in an intimate connection.
Ettie forced her attention away, turning to the shelves and pretended to be busy rearranging the tobaccos. Would he come inside this time? If so, should she acknowledge him and how would she do it? Her, a mere shop assistant, brazenly announcing herself as a friend?
‘Good day,’ interrupted the sweet, articulated voice that Ettie recalled so well. ‘I’ve come to buy your silver snuff miniature with the mother-of-pearl inlay. I hope you have it still?’
Ettie turned, her heart jumping into her throat, or at least, it felt that way as her gaze fell on the young woman whose soft greeting had felt as forceful as the tide of the river rushing in to break over its banks.
‘Yes … yes,’ Ettie heard herself reply, though her voice seemed faint. ‘The snuff miniatures are still for sale.’
‘May I inspect them? Be as quick as you can. I have just a few minutes to spare.’
This new piece of information collided with the movement of the tall figure standing outside on the cobbles. Michael was positioned where he had waited before, his broad shoulders towards her, a perfect line of dark hair just visible under his flat cap. A leather belt was wrapped around his slim waist and the jacket smoothed over his hips to meet his trousers in such a way that he might have pressed his own clothes with a hot iron not two minutes before! But it was his figure beneath, she realized with sudden shock, that caused the uniform to appear so grand, for he had grown in both height and stature it seemed, even from when she had last seen him.
‘I say, did you hear me?’ The girl’s voice, harder now, with a touch of irritation, broke into Ettie’s thoughts and she reached quickly for the box that contained the snuffs.
‘Let me see them open,’ the girl said as Ettie, with trembling fingers, placed them on the counter, slipped the little catches and allowed the lids of each miniature to spring up.
‘Delightful,’ said the girl,
removing her gloves and taking one. Ettie thought for a moment she might dip her finger into the perfect oval of powder. But instead she nodded and handed the box to Ettie. ‘Is it the same price as the pipe?’
Ettie nodded.
‘Wrap it as you did before. My brother was pleasantly surprised with his smokes and Mama completely distressed when she discovered my pipe. I argued of course that it couldn’t be smoked and was merely a decoration. But I could see I had aroused her suspicions, which gave me a great fillip.’
Ettie carried the box to a corner of the shop, hardly aware of what she was doing. Out of sight of her customer, she took a sheet of brown paper and ball of string. But her movements were clumsy and she almost cut herself with the scissors.
‘Hurry please,’ called the girl and Ettie glanced back to see a dainty bare knuckle rapping on the window. The sound alerted the driver who turned on his booted heel and gazed in.
‘Michael,’ Ettie whispered as though her lips spoke of their own will. ‘Michael ?’
But his attention was fully on the girl as she pressed her face, smiling, close to the glass. The moment seemed to linger and grow like an invisible thread between them and it took all of Ettie’s willpower not to cry aloud from the pain that seared into her chest. It clamped around her breastbone like a vice and penetrated to the core of her being.
‘Michael …’ she half called, unable to restrain herself. ‘It’s me, Ettie …’
The girl turned in alarm as though she herself had been summoned. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. I … I am just coming,’ Ettie blurted, fumbling to tie the ends of the string.
‘I can wait no longer,’ decided the girl, plainly annoyed, and she sped across the floor to where Ettie stood. ‘Here is your money.’ She pushed the coins into Ettie’s hand, snatching the box with the other.
Before Ettie could reply, her customer had whisked away, opening the door of the salon and departing under the protective gaze of her driver.
By the time Ettie reached the window, Michael was swinging himself high onto the seat of the damson-red brougham and settled there, lifting the reins.
The carriage was already moving away when Ettie’s palm reached the same inch on the window that the girl’s knuckle had touched. Her cry, though, was more pitiful than her own ears could possibly bear for it was of anguish, and desperation, and regret she had not been quicker, all mixed.
‘Michael! Michael, it’s me, Ettie!’
But even when she called again, this time from the street outside, the carriage was almost out of sight. Only the tip of the crop was visible as Michael drove away.
Chapter 37
It was the last day of August and much to her dismay, Ettie still found herself thinking of Michael. It was clear he had done well for himself, although his beginnings were as humble as her own. Yet the young woman in whose service he now found himself, must come from an aristocratic family, most likely owners of vast estates. Did they approve of their daughter’s friendship with a commoner?
Instantly Ettie berated herself for this unjust thought. The nuns had taught her to believe that love and affection knew no bounds. But whenever she found herself thinking of Michael and the girl, a pain snaked around her ribs and left her breathless.
Jealousy was a sin. She remembered the Song of Solomon; ‘love is as strong as death and jealousy as fierce as the grave’. Ettie had never understood this before.
But now she did.
Recalling Michael’s strong spirit, she suspected that nothing would stand in his way if he wanted this beautiful girl. And, Ettie knew the girl wanted him. This was what hurt the most. The gestures and little touches. Unspoken words conveyed with the eyes.
Ettie understood it all now. She wished she could call Michael back and say precious words of her own. If only she had decided to approach him, but her pride had stopped her. She had been ashamed of her own lowly status in comparison to the girl’s!
She had other worries, too, for the wholesalers of Tobacco Dock had made no deliveries since June and her supplies were almost exhausted. Ettie had written to them and also to the wine merchant, but neither consignment had appeared.
It was late on a Saturday evening when Ettie was considering ordering a cab to make a visit to both suppliers when a bedraggled figure appeared in the twilight of Silver Street.
It was not unusual, Ettie supposed, to see such a character for Soho was home to beggars and the down-and-outs of all kinds. But there was something about this man who walked with a slight limp, leaning on a staff to support himself. His collar was turned up to his felt hat, and his shoulders hunched under the weight of a dirty knapsack.
Ettie gazed through the window, her eyes narrowed in order to see through the gloom. A vague unease filled her. She was certain she knew this man. Though it was impossible to tell who he was, a familiarity was there.
Quite suddenly he turned towards the salon, striking the staff in the ground. With some visible effort he placed his booted feet apart as if to steady himself. His free hand went up to his face, half covered by his collar and his eyes met Ettie’s.
A cry left her lips. She felt as if her insides had paralysed with shock.
The young man she had once known, was now an old and haggard shadow of his former self.
She ran to the door and thrust it open. ‘Mr Benjamin, is that you?’
There was barely a nod in answer.
Ettie took his arm for it was now quite plain that her employer was in need of assistance. He was so light that Ettie still had doubts this was the happy, boisterous man who had left Silver Street a year ago. A stranger had replaced him; unkempt, unwashed, neglected, with a straggly beard and eyes robbed of their vibrant blue.
But to Ettie the deepest shock was that he was alone. Yet she feared to ask him more as she helped him inside. Glancing up at the portrait of his mother, he heaved a great gasp. Tears filled the unhappy eyes and a cough trembled on his lips.
‘I hung the portrait there to keep me company. I hope you don’t mind?’ Ettie said although she knew he wasn’t listening. The tobacconist of Silver Street was not his old self and instinct told Ettie to say no more. Instead she guided him along the passage to the drawing room where he looked around him as though viewing a long-lost life.
‘Please sit down,’ Ettie urged as she steered him towards the fireside. ‘Here, let me take your bag and staff.’
He offered no resistance and after putting them to one side, Ettie helped him to the chair. He sank down, his head falling forward.
After some minutes, Ettie lifted away his hat and placed it with the staff and bag. How dull and lifeless his once vibrant wiry hair had become! A few thin streaks of the handsome sandy-gold remained, barely disguising the little round pennies of bare scalp.
What was she to do for the best, she wondered? How dearly she wanted to know about Clara and the baby! And to be reassured they were well. But all her questions must wait.
Leaving the exhausted man, she went to the kitchen to steady her nerves. Putting the kettle on to boil, she prepared a bowl and flannel, with a little lavender oil to refresh the skin. But Lucas was fast asleep when she returned and she hadn’t the heart to wake him.
Carefully she lifted his feet to the stool. Removing his holed boots, she disposed of his socks and replaced them with his slippers. Unbuttoning his coat, a sweet and putrid smell came off his skin. Perhaps he hadn’t washed in days?
The next hour she spent in preparing a broth, boiling lean scraps from the rashers of bacon that Terence had served her last week. Several times she returned to the drawing room. On each visit, she found the slumbering man breathing noisily. She propped his head back but it only fell forward again.
By ten o’clock Ettie decided that nothing would wake him, not even the wholesome aromas of the cooked broth. She brought covers from the bedrooms and curled on the other chair, watching the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket.
Midnight arrived and he had
turned restlessly, kicking over the stool. Ettie’s thoughts went to Clara. Why had her husband travelled home without her? Perhaps the journey was too difficult for the baby? Yes, that must be it. Yet why should he arrive in such a state? Had there been an accident? Had the carriage overturned somewhere along the route?
Yes, this must be the reason, Ettie decided as her lids closed. It was an explanation that almost satisfied her as she fell asleep.
Chapter 38
She woke as daylight broke through the curtains and lit the room.
Throwing off her cover, she hurried to her employer who was struggling to ease himself from the chair.
‘Mr Benjamin, let me help you.’
‘Am I home, Ettie?’
‘You are home, Sir, though I can see you are weary from your long travels.’
‘I am, I am,’ he confirmed. ‘Give me my staff and I shall visit the washroom. After which, I shall answer all your enquiries.’
She placed the staff in his hand as he stumbled away, his figure that of an aged man. She felt the impulse to go after him, but instead put two hens’ eggs on to boil and sliced a loaf, adding a little salt and pepper to the breakfast tray. By the time he returned she had set the dining room table and their meal was ready.
He made no murmur as he sank to his seat and ate without enthusiasm. A sad fondness crept over her as she recalled the younger, happier Lucas Benjamin who always enjoyed his meals with such gusto.
‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I haven’t eaten so well in many days.’
‘Sir, that is distressing to hear.’ She waited for a further explanation but once more he drifted into his own thoughts and sat mute.
Ettie cleared the dirty crockery and busied herself in the kitchen, repressing the urge to beg him to tell her what had happened. When she returned, she found him in the salon, staring up at the portrait.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I removed it and hung it there,’ she apologized once again.