The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  ‘Come and sit by me, Dorothy,’ June called to her across the room.

  With a roll of the eyes and a scornful laugh, Guy had to butt in. ‘For goodness’ sake, June, don’t call her Dorothy. She likes to be known as Dottie.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cause offense,’ June said immediately. Her tone made it all too clear that it was she who had taken offense.

  Dottie couldn’t see why her name should be difficult or unusual. She just smiled and said, ‘Oh really, it’s perfectly all right. I’m just used to being called Dottie by most people, but it really doesn’t matter. My mother calls me Dorothy. Although I do rather feel as though I’m being told off when I hear my full name.’ She laughed gently at her own joke, and even though Guy and Imogen joined in, it did nothing to diffuse the odd tension in the room.

  June simply said, ‘Your mother?’ She sent a significant look in Cecilia’s direction.

  Dottie felt uncomfortable. She knew she was blushing. But there was no point saying anything.

  ‘I think Dorothy is referring to my sister Lavinia.’ Cecilia’s tone was frosty. Clearly it was one thing to know something “privately”, but quite another to mention it in front of everyone.

  It was June’s turn to blush. She began to stammer an apology, but Guy said, ‘So, Leo, how’s the fishing been lately?’ And the conversation turned to fishing and to the unusually mild weather for the time of year, which had been having a beneficial effect on the men’s favourite sport, it seemed.

  ‘Mind you, there’s a bad cold snap coming in from the north by the weekend, bringing heavy frost and sub-zero temperatures,’ Leo said, adding, ‘So that’ll no doubt ruin everything. They say we could even have snow by New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Guy said. He lit another cigarette. ‘This good weather will continue a while yet.’

  ‘Guy, do take your cigarette outside. You know I don’t care to breathe in your foul smoke.’

  ‘Yes Mother.’ Guy didn’t roll his eyes at his mother, though Dottie thought he looked very much as if he’d like to. The three men promptly reached for their cigar cases and left the room.

  Imogen began to look at some embroidery June had been working on, June pointing out to her the different stitches she’d been using. Cecilia wandered over to the window and stood looking out at the garden, apparently either deep in thought or raptly interested in what she could see of this side of a small herbaceous border.

  Once again, Dottie felt excluded by her family. She remained in her seat, deep in thought.

  When she had arrived she had wondered, from the odd hint or two dropped into the very first conversation, if Cecilia’s children might possibly know about Dottie’s parentage. Even last night, when she and Cecilia had their ‘open’ discussion, she had thought it likely that they did all know. Now she was completely certain. The whole family knew that she was Cecilia’s illegitimate child.

  How long had they known? Had they always known? Had they known even when she had visited as a small child with Flora and their parents? Had everyone always known? Everyone except her?

  She supposed it didn’t really matter. If Cecilia—and Lewis—were happy to allow her to visit them, clearly everyone had long accepted the situation, and it was new only to herself.

  Although—now she thought about it—it really was only Imogen and Uncle Lewis who seemed to be pleased to see her, and who treated her with anything like friendliness. Guy appeared to find a malicious enjoyment in the situation, Leo and June were merely socially polite, but uninterested, and her aunt—her mother—seemed actually to dislike her, to strongly dislike her in fact. So why had Cecilia acceded to Imogen’s secretive invitation? Was she simply too polite to say that it had been a mistake?

  And how did Lewis really feel about having the illegitimate—supposedly secret—daughter of his wife staying under his roof? Did he care? Did it bother him or cause him any discomfort, or embarrassment or even sorrow or, quite justifiably, anger to have this living proof of his wife’s infidelity right there before his eyes?

  He had been pleasant, welcoming, his anecdotes had been the dull fishing, hunting or shooting anecdotes of most men of his age and social standing. His reminiscences were those typical of the public schoolboy, featuring faceless boys and men with names such as Boffo or Chippy. He was practically a caricature of himself. But he was nice to her, she thought, and she liked him.

  But he showed little affection towards his wife. Admittedly he seemed to fall in line with her wishes. Or at least, Dottie reminded herself, in front of me, he seems to go out of his way to please her. Who knew what happened in private, in the intimate setting of a bedroom or when visitors and children were elsewhere? But in the drawing room, morning room, or the dining room, there were no affectionate glances, no touches of the hand on Cecilia’s shoulder, no kisses on her cheek. None of the small, easily overlooked displays of love that she saw at home between her parents, or Flora and George, or any of their friends who were courting or actually married.

  But her mother—Lavinia Manderson—had always believed Lewis to be a philandering, gambling wastrel of a man, never at home, never spending time with his family. Perhaps that had only been in his youth, she thought. Even though he had been away for part of yesterday, she’d seen none of that side of his character, although it seemed to be there to a marked degree in his son Guy. Yet Guy and Leo had alluded once or twice to their father being frequently absent, or not having affection for his family. Why was that?

  She turned her thoughts to Cecilia, still over by the window, looking out at the garden. Dottie didn’t understand why on earth the woman didn’t simply open the French door on the other side of the piano and go outside to get a proper look; the rain had stopped hours ago and it wasn’t especially cold today, not in the sunshine.

  Why did the woman do anything the way she did? Why—and Dottie was back to that enigma she couldn’t find an answer to—why had she allowed Dottie to stay with them if she didn’t want to spend time with her, if she didn’t even like her?

  A new idea occurred to Dottie now for the first time. Was it possible that Cecilia had been attacked, and that Dottie was in fact the dreadful result of that event? Was it possible that the very sight of her brought back haunting memories of that most nightmarish of situations, that without doubt, her aunt had striven to forget over the last twenty years? When she looked at Dottie, did she see the mirror image of that evil man’s eyes?

  Dottie exhaled, suddenly aghast at her thoughts. This was something that had never once occurred to her before. Not for one second had she thought... It seemed to make perfect sense of the whole situation. No wonder she wasn’t welcome here.

  ‘Dottie, are you all right?’ Imogen called.

  ‘Oh, er, yes. Quite all right, thank you.’ Dottie felt muzzy-headed, as if she had emerged from a dream. All three ladies were watching her.

  ‘Come and look at this lovely work June is doing for a new screen in her dressing room. She’s the one who helped me with the design for the screen in my sitting room, my pride and joy.’ To June, Imogen said, ‘Dottie doesn’t just sew, she even designs the clothes first.’

  Dottie joined them, June moving along to make room beside her.

  ‘I don’t think I’d enjoy that. I much prefer this kind of work,’ June said.

  Dottie looked at the work properly for the first time, and saw it was exquisitely done, and she said so. June blushed with pleasure and became warmer. Soon they were deep in conversation about needlework of all sorts, including the layette for Flora’s baby, which then had to be extended to cater for two.

  After a few minutes, Imogen said to June, ‘You should see the designs Dottie’s brought with her to work on. Dottie, is it just for fun, or are you planning to make all those garments for yourself? It’ll take you at least a year. Probably two!’

  Her sudden question caught Dottie by surprise. June’s pale eyes were fixed on Dottie, and she seemed eager to hear the answer.
In fact everyone was: Cecilia half-turned from the window.

  Not quite sure how much detail to go into without boring everyone, Dottie began to explain about her work as a mannequin for Mrs Carmichael at Carmichael and Jennings, then went on to tell them that when Mrs Carmichael had been murdered—to gasps of horror from Imogen and June—in the Spring, Dottie had inherited the business from her mentor, and was now in the process of putting together a collection for the season after next. And it was the samples and designs for those that she had brought with her.

  ‘Those must be what I saw on your bed!’ Imogen crowed. To June, she said, in the manner of a confession, ‘I saw them last evening when I looked into Dottie’s room to say goodnight. She was surrounded by all these sheets of paper with drawings of models in costumes, dresses, negligees, everything. The fabric samples were there too, so you could imagine exactly how each one would look when it was made up. It was wonderful! Will you have a revue?’ Imogen began to look excited.

  June shot her a puzzled look. ‘What for?’

  ‘To show everyone what they can buy, silly. To display the range. How exciting. I would love to be there to see it. Oh, I so love the designs, Dottie!’

  Dottie hadn’t realised Imogen had observed so much, but it couldn’t possibly matter. It was only from people who worked in the garment industry that she felt a need to protect her work. One heard stories of designs being stolen and used by other warehouses or designers to their own profit. Besides, it was pleasing to know that someone had seen the designs and liked them.

  Dottie smiled. ‘I love them too. For me it’s very exciting to go through everything and imagine the whole range coming together. Yes, there will be a show, probably with a cocktail party or something like that. That’s how Mrs Carmichael always used to run things.’

  ‘Quite the little businesswoman, aren’t you?’ Leo said from the French doors. His father and his brother stood slightly behind him, and it was obvious they had been there a few seconds and had heard at least some of what Imogen and Dottie had said. There was something in Leo’s tone that set Dottie’s teeth on edge.

  ‘I do hope you’ve got some reliable fellow to keep your accounts for you, and help you with all that side of things. I hardly imagine Herbert would permit you to dabble in something that could so easily leave you deep in debt or ruin your reputation,’ Cecilia said. Leo had crossed the room and stood beside her, mother and eldest son side by side, and so alike, Dottie now noticed. That same slight lift of the mouth to the left that made them look as though they were sneering at you.

  Leo laughed, not a pleasant sound. ‘Oh Mother, of course she has. Uncle Herbert would hardly allow a young girl of Dottie’s age to actually run the business herself. I expect they just let Dottie think she’s in charge, when really she’s a kind of manager of the seamstress or someone. Good grief, can you imagine the mess a kid would get into handling money and placing orders? Do talk sense.’ He laughed again, enjoying his own joke. Guy was laughing along with him. Uncle Lewis was watching Dottie with a kindly look, as if he knew the comments hurt her feelings, but didn’t know how to stop them. Or just couldn’t be bothered. This was how they all treated Imogen, Dottie realised.

  And as for her aunt... Dottie didn’t know quite what to make of her expression. It seemed almost as if she were throwing down a challenge and daring Dottie to accept it.

  Dottie did accept it. She was annoyed with Leo for making her feel like a foolish child, which was how she so often felt without anyone else’s help. But Leo was just a pompous idiot, she reminded herself, and she’d dealt with the likes of him before. Outwardly, rather than getting on her high horse about woman’s rights, she said simply, ‘Oh I’m learning how to do all that, too, of course.’ She turned back to June and Imogen, to see June looking at her with something like horror in her eyes. Of course, Dottie realised belatedly, Leo was June’s husband. June appeared to be one of those women who derived happiness from going out of her way to let him know he was her lord and master. Beside June, Imogen was positively beaming at Dottie, which had a heartening effect.

  Leo said, in a frowning voice, ‘I say, that doesn’t sound very sensible. I mean, a young girl dealing with business matters. You’re not even of age. I’m surprised your father permits it. Or your fiancé this—this Parfitt fellow. If I were him...’

  ‘He’s not my fiancé yet,’ Dottie snapped.

  Into the tense atmosphere of the drawing room, June said hastily, ‘Where are my manners. Dottie, do let me show you around our gardens.’

  Cecilia and Lewis remained indoors. Cecilia reading a book, Lewis as always managed to find himself a newspaper to hide behind, a little like Father, Dottie thought.

  June was, it turned out, an avid gardener, with a special passion for using Latin names and botanical terminology. Dottie’s smile became fixed very quickly. The only thing that struck her as interesting was how Guy—the man who seemed to approach life with a sardonic grin and a shrug of the shoulders—seemed to not only hang on June’s every word, but to share her passion for plants—and her knowledge.

  Bored, Leo had wandered off within minutes. Guy and June continued the non-stop gardening conversation, determined that Dottie shouldn’t miss a thing.

  ‘June’s plan is to create a complete collection of all the mentha species and their varieties as a kind of living catalogue, and of course to provide information about them, offer research and possibly a breeding and cross-breeding programme, to help other botanists and herbalists, and to give the nation a kind of definitive range as a safeguard against loss in the future.’ Dottie couldn’t help noticing that Guy’s voice rang with pride. A stranger could be forgiven for thinking that is was Guy—not Leo—who was June’s husband.

  June smiled and clutched at his arm. ‘Oh you!’ She gave him a playful nudge.

  Dottie thought so far she’d seen nothing playful, or even romantic between June and Leo. This unexpected girlish laughing side of her made Dottie wonder. To Dottie, June said, ‘He always makes me sound more of an expert that I am. And he’s helped me a great deal in cataloguing and tracking the varieties, so really it’s as much his project as mine.’

  They turned to cast doting looks on some green tips on a brown twig just barely showing above the surface of the soil. Next to it was a wooden label, which Dottie could see bore some pencilled writing in a small neat hand. There was a large patch of these insignificant-seeming sprouts, each with their own label. Dottie sent Imogen a glance that begged for help.

  ‘Mint,’ Imogen whispered. ‘They’re all different types of mint. With different scents and habits.’

  Dottie nodded, grateful for the insight. She looked again at the almost invisible sprouting leaves. She couldn’t imagine why anybody needed mint apart from as an occasional cough sweet or as an accompaniment to roast lamb. She adopted an interested smile, not wanting to hurt June’s feelings now that she was being so pleasant. ‘And—er—how many different mints do you have at the moment?’ Dottie asked.

  ‘Sixty-six.’

  Dottie stared at June in complete astonishment. June took her expression the right way, fortunately, and said, ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it certainly...’

  ‘I owe it all to Guy, really. He’s the one who has encouraged me to do it. He’s the one who lets me know whenever he’s tracked down a source for a new variety.’

  For a moment, Dottie thought she’d said ‘sauce’ but then as June went on, Dottie’s brain made the adjustment.

  ‘Why, only a month ago he found out about—it’s this one in here—too tender to go outside at the moment of course, but as you can see, it’s really doing rather well.’

  Dottie followed June into the glasshouse, feeling a perverse curiosity to see yet another small greyish-green plantlet, with yet another little wooden label.

  ‘Of course as the weather grows warmer—God willing, in our fickle English climate—we’ll need to move this little chap and his friends outside. It�
�ll be too warm in here by then.’ This was Guy speaking now, and Dottie was fascinated to see how his usual world-weary, rather cynical veneer fell away, to leave an enthusiastic, boyish young man. June’s hand was still on his arm, but she addressed Dottie.

  ‘Of course, we are madly keen on other herbs too. It’s not only the menthas with us!’ They laughed, catching each other’s eye as if this had become a kind of catchphrase. Dottie was struck again by the picture they presented of being a couple. She thought if they had indeed been husband and wife, they would have been rather well-matched. As the four of them turned to leave the glasshouse, June continued, ‘No, as well as the menthas, we love the thymus species too. I’d love to collect those.’

  ‘Thyme,’ Imogen said softly in Dottie’s ear. ‘With an H. The herb. They have tons of them as well.’

  Dottie nodded.

  June and Guy led them back outside and along a narrow path, turning through an archway into a walled garden. It proved to be a wide, sheltered space shaped into little round beds comprising wedge shapes, and the whole thing enclosed on all sides by low box hedges. Flowers and herbs that had already died back in more exposed ground still bloomed here in small numbers. Roses clung to the mellow red brick walls, and it was warmer, protected from any wintry weather that might batter the plants beyond the walls.

  ‘The herb garden!’ they chorused, laughing again in unison.

  Dottie felt a sinking sensation. How much longer could she possibly go on? All those dull plants with their ubiquitous wooden markers. In the spring and summer, yes, she was sure it would look lovely and no doubt smell even better. But at this time of year? June and Guy looked so happy, walking and talking side by side, absolutely in their element.

  Behind her, Imogen murmured, ‘This will take quite a while, I’m afraid. I usually get about halfway down then either I pretend I’m feeling really cold and have to go in, or I feel faint and have to go in because of that. I can count you in, if you like?’