Dorothy Eden (14 page)

But her husband, interested only in stepping on to the train, hadn’t noticed any of this. He really hadn’t looked at her with any true observation for a long time.

F
OR SOME TIME BEATRICE
had personally interviewed all new applicants for jobs at Bonnington’s, from the humblest messenger boy to the haughty top buyer shamelessly lured from other big department stores such as Whiteley’s, Debenham and Freebody’s or Swan and Edgar’s. She prided herself on being a judge of character, and also of being a good employer. The young girl who stood before her, gauche and terrified, need have no fear if she did her work honestly and well. She would see to the girl’s welfare both in and out of the shop. She had been known to call at the lodgings of a young dressmaker’s apprentice to find out why she arrived at work with a tearstained face, and every appearance of malnutrition. She had also made arrangements for the birth and adoption of illegitimate infants, although this calamity did not happen often. Bonnington’s girls had the reputation for being good girls. They knew that if they were caught cuddling and kissing the errand boys or the junior salesmen or even the grander senior salesmen (who should certainly know better) they would be dismissed immediately.

No part of the shop, even the packing department, was secure from Miss Beatrice’s perambulations. She would come walking down the aisles between counters, a robust little figure in her nun-like grey dress, with its stiff white collar buttoned to her chin, and her eyes missed nothing. The youngest shop girl measuring ribbon half an inch too short, or too long, the customer who had not been offered a chair, an undusted counter or the carelessness of a display.

Kept you on the hop, did Miss Beatrice, new employees were warned. She was a good sort, if you did your work properly she appreciated it. And she always remembered who you were and where you came from. Her brain must have been full to bursting with information about people and prices and sales figures and stock, and what was going on in the whole of the British Empire.

They had had a magnificent window commemorating the death of General Gordon in Khartoum, with laurel wreaths, and a lifesize dummy of the handsome martyred General. The tableaux had been written about in the press, a fact that pleased Beatrice enormously. Since then there had been an Indian window and an African window, and then an Australian one with stuffed kangaroos and other queer mammals.

But the great event had been when the Princess of Wales had brought her prospective daughter-in-law, Princess Mary of Teck, to shop. This was done quietly, without any fanfare. Beatrice met the royal customers at the door, and personally escorted them through the shop. The young Princess ordered three hats, and two evening gowns, and the Princess of Wales found some French kid gloves and a Kashmir shawl that she liked. Miss Brown had had to sit down and sniff sal volatile afterwards. She was weeping with delight, as if the triumph had been entirely hers.

Everyone was whispering about the Royal Warrant, it was surely a
fait accompli
when the Prince of Wales came to the throne. But of course old Queen Victoria might live for many years yet. She was not yet seventy.

Beatrice’s flair for selecting staff at the shop did not desert her when it came to domestic matters. The employment agency had sent five young women to be interviewed for the post of nursery governess. Beatrice had no hesitation at all in deciding on the most suitable.

Miss Mary Medway, aged nineteen years, was an only child and recently orphaned (her mother had died when she was fourteen, and her father, a country doctor, a few months ago). She had been well educated and had lived the life of a gentlewoman until her father’s death. Then it was found that his affairs were in a deplorable muddle, and there was no money left to support his daughter. He had been gentle and saintly, the girl told Beatrice, but his generosity to the poor had left his own daughter impoverished.

Beatrice looked at the slight figure in the dark brown muslin dress with white ruching at neck and wrists. Miss Medway had light brown hair loosely framing her face, and a mouth that trembled easily. Her eyes were full of tears. She was gentle and sensitive and the children, especially timid Florence, would be happy with her. Her references were impeccable.

It would be a tremendous help, Beatrice said, if she could commence her duties at once.

“But you’ve decided so quickly, Mrs Overton!”

“I always do,” said Beatrice. “I pride myself on reading character. Would you like to come and meet the children?”

The children, Florence in particular, took to Miss Medway on sight. Edwin capitulated when she successfully pleaded that Edwin be allowed to play with his grandfather’s famous collection of lead soldiers. These had been kept safely behind the glass doors of the Chippendale bookcase in the library, but surely, at four years of age, Edwin was old enough to marshall them in rows, and not to suck the lead.

So, under Miss Medway’s supervision, the regiments of the British, French and German armies fought the Battle of Waterloo, the Russians marched to defend Balaclava, and a contingent of sepoys in colourful uniforms opposed the British redcoats in the Indian Mutiny. Even at such a tender age Edwin was absorbed, though one didn’t know whether he was beginning to be fascinated with the ancient game of war, or whether he just liked the clever little figures. At any rate, the old General would have been pleased with his grandson.

Florence played with her dolls and professed contempt for war-like games. She was a little jealous, though not too much, for Miss Medway had time to make dresses for her dolls, and always told Florence that she was pretty. No one had told her that before. Little sourpuss, her grandmother called her, and Mamma sighed over her long straight hair which stubbornly refused to curl, even after a night spent in knobbly rag curlers.

As for Papa, one knew that secretly he would have liked a much prettier daughter, but he was nearly always away.

However, he was coming home for the publication of his book, and the party Mamma was arranging to celebrate this occasion.

His book was going to have a
succes d’estime
, people said, whatever that meant. And, fancy that delicate William Overton, he hasn’t been wasting his time and living entirely on a rich wife, after all. Florence, who had a gift for overhearing things, had heard both those remarks. She liked overhearing snippets of conversation, although Mamma had once caught her at the drawing room door and scolded her severely, saying that eavesdropping was a nasty habit, and frequently painful to the listener.

However, Florence did know what Papa had written to Mamma, just before announcing that he was coming home, because Mamma read the letter aloud to Miss Medway, laughing.
Who is this paragon you have in the nursery? I suspect you have the word wrong, and she is really another dragon, like Nanny Blair.

Florence said, “You’ll like our Papa, Miss Medway.”

“Will I?”

“Oh, yes. He’s very pretty.”

“He buys us presents,” Edwin said.

“That’s called cupboard love,” Miss Medway said.

“He always comes to the nursery and plays with us,” Florence went on. “He says, ‘How you’ve grown.’ And Mamma buys us new clothes for when he’s coming home so we’ll do him credit. She gets a new dress, too, and Grandmamma gets six. Miss Brown says Grandmamma’s girth is something to be wondered at.”

“Florence, I don’t think you should talk about your grandmother like that.”

“Horses have girths,” said Edwin. “I heard Dixon saying he’d have to tighten the girth. Does Grandmamma have hers tightened?”

Florence didn’t have a quick humour. She said quite seriously, “Don’t be silly. Dixon doesn’t harness her into the carriage,” and Edwin began to giggle so much that Miss Medway said sharply, “Children! That will be enough. Come and begin your reading lesson.”

Florence was making great progress with her reading. Edwin was much slower, which was surprising, for he seemed to be a clever child in other ways. But they both had considerable improvement to demonstrate to Papa.

The next thing was the preparation of the blue room. Apparently Papa had written saying that he was sleeping badly, and didn’t want to disturb Mamma, so he would prefer to occupy separate rooms. Besides, she knew how the damp English air would be sure to make him cough again.

So the carpets of the blue room were taken up and beaten, new curtains hung, and all the woodwork washed. Then Mamma had the slides of Papa’s most colourful butterflies put in glass cases and hung on the walls. They looked very striking. Miss Medway said so. Florence heard Mamma explaining, with a little laugh, that perhaps if Papa’s eyes could feast on his butterflies every day he would not have such a desire to travel so far to find more. Mamma had been very quiet during the whole of the renovation of the blue room, as if she would really rather have Papa sleeping in her bed as he had used to do. Although that must be very uncomfortable for two grown people, Florence thought. Didn’t they kick one another?

The last thing of all was Mamma’s going to a shop in Bond Street called Worth’s to order her dress for the party, and, by doing so, deeply offending Miss Brown. Weren’t her own dressmakers good enough for her, Miss Brown asked indignantly. Did she imagine herself better even than Princess Mary?

Mamma was too fond of Miss Brown to be angry. She said that it happened her husband had always liked Mr Worth’s creations, and she wanted to please him. However, she had been rather crafty, she had had a word in private with Mr Worth’s head dressmaker and it was just possible she might be lured to Bonnington’s. Wouldn’t that be a triumph?

“You’re always thinking of Bonnington’s, Miss Beatrice,” Miss Brown said, not entirely mollified.

“And my husband,” said Mamma.

“Two birds with one stone,” said Miss Brown. “You are clever at that, aren’t you, Miss Beatrice?”

The new dress was white lace over rosy pink taffeta. It had a low-cut bodice and a spray of moss roses falling down the full skirt.

It was delicious, Florence thought. It made Mamma look really pretty, and not old at all. She had begun to seem old beside Miss Medway, but Miss Medway had only a modest dark blue dress for the party because she was still in half mourning for her father. So Mamma would be the person people looked at.

Anyway, although Miss Medway would certainly wear her party dress, she would spend most of the time with the children who would be permitted downstairs for only a short time before retiring to the vantage point of the stairway, and then to bed.

The great day of Papa’s return arrived at last, and Mamma, with a rosy spot of colour in each cheek and her eyes shining, climbed into the carriage and Dixon whipped up the horses, and they were off to Victoria station.

The children had never been allowed to share the excitement of actually meeting Papa on the railway station. Once when Florence had begged to come she had been told kindly but firmly, “No, darling, Mamma likes to have Papa to herself just for an hour. Then we’ll all sit round the nursery fire as usual.”

“I want to see the train,” Edwin had whined and Florence had slapped him spitefully. “If you’re not a good boy Papa won’t bring you a present.”

Edwin’s noisy tears had somehow relieved the need to shed any of her own.

But she didn’t behave like that now Miss Medway was here. She wanted so much to please and to be loved. Mamma had had Papa and she had only had horrid Nanny Blair and Lizzie. But now she had Miss Medway so actually she would never need to be naughty again.

Both she and Edwin were dressed in their Sunday clothes, feeling uncomfortably scrubbed and tidy, and Miss Medway, although still in her neat brown day dress, had tied her hair back with a black velvet bow which made her look different and festive. When Mamma, followed by Papa, came into the nursery, saying happily, “Here he is, children. Here’s Papa,” Florence knew that Papa had seen the bow in Miss Medway’s hair at once. Indeed, he stared rather hard at it, and didn’t look at the children at all.

Florence didn’t criticise this. She was not a child who expected attention, and she was glad that Papa obviously liked Miss Medway. It would make things so much safer. Miss Medway wouldn’t go away and perhaps Papa wouldn’t either. She was really only alarmed that Edwin had rushed at Papa and rudely demanded his present.

Nanny Blair would have sent him up to the night nursery on the instant.

But Miss Medway didn’t. It was Mamma who remonstrated, “Edwin! Where are your manners? William, don’t scold him. He’s so excited to have you home.”

“To see what’s in my pockets, the young rascal,” Papa said, swinging Edwin into the air. “I say, he’s a handsome little devil. And this is Florence. How she’s grown!”

Really, the same things said, except for that bad word ‘devil’. Nanny Blair would have been scandalised. Miss Medway just pulled in her lips as if she were trying not to smile, and Mamma said, “This is Miss Medway, William. You remember, I wrote to you about her.”

“Ah, the paragon. I can see that you were right, Bea, not I.” Whatever that meant.

Papa and Miss Medway shook hands, and Papa said that he hoped she was happy here. She said thank you, she was, very.

“That’s capital. Why don’t we all sit round this splendid fire? We could have tea in here, couldn’t we, Bea?”

Florence clapped her hands with pleasure. Mamma, not looking quite so pleased, probably because she had ordered tea in the drawing room where she and Papa could be alone, said by all means, she would ring for it.

Florence allowed herself to touch Papa’s hand shyly. He really was so beautiful with his smiling brown eyes and his glossy hair and he had grown a neat little beard. It was clear that Miss Medway thought he was beautiful, too, for she kept giving him quick sidelong glances. And Mamma had that adoring look on her face that she kept only for Papa.

All in all, Florence decided with the wisdom of her nearly six years, it was one of Papa’s happiest returns. Perhaps he would never go away again.

When he had left the nursery with Mamma an hour later, she turned eagerly to Miss Medway and demanded, “Don’t you think our Papa is a pretty man? Isn’t it true what I told you?”