Mermaids Singing (30 page)

If she lived to be a hundred, she thought, she would never cease to wonder at, and wallow in, the luxury of their new surroundings. Her feet sank into the thick pile of the wine red carpet, sending a warm glow of satisfaction through her whole body. She couldn’t resist switching on the recently installed electric light that made the chandeliers sparkle like diamonds, reflecting in rainbow prisms on the cream paintwork. Bella had insisted that no expense should be spared when it came to the salon, as wealthy clients would expect high standards. What Mr Chester thought of this, she did not say, but Kitty suspected that Bella had had to use a great deal of charm to wheedle the money out of him.

The evening sun slanted in through the windows and, although she didn’t need the light to write up the day’s business, it was a thrill to conjure up the miracle of electricity at the flick of a switch. Kitty sat down at the gilt console table and began to write out the worksheets ready to hand over to Betty, who was in charge of the cutting and sewing room behind the salon. Two more ball gowns, and an entire trousseau for a well-known actress, would keep them busy for several weeks. The work would be made easier now they had two spanking new treadle machines that Bella had purchased with some of the money loaned by Mr Chester.

Kitty chewed the end of her pencil and frowned. It was almost a year since Bella had found the house in Sackville Street. Because of its run-down state, she had managed to negotiate a reasonable rent, considering its situation in the fashionable area on the edge of Mayfair and St James’s. They had hired workmen to paint and decorate the front of the four-storey terraced house, and to turn the parlour into a smart little salon. There were now two dressing rooms, tented in pink silk, reminding Kitty of the inside of a chocolate box, just like the one that Mr Chester had given them at Christmas time.

He had tried to offer advice about starting up the business, but Bella would have none of it, tossing her head and telling him that she knew very well what she was doing. This had puzzled Kitty. She could not understand why Bella seemed to dislike him, when Mr Chester was the one who had set them up in business in the first place. He was all right, Kitty thought, when you got to know him, and he wasn’t a bounder like Giles Rackham. Although, of course, Mr Chester was not nearly as good-looking as Mr Rackham. He didn’t have the wicked twinkle in his eye, or the charming smile that made you shiver inside, like eating ice cream on a hot day.

Realising that she had just written the same thing twice, Kitty picked up a piece of India rubber and scrubbed at the worksheet. Recalling the one and only time Mr Rackham had visited them in Sackville Street had made her mind wander. It had been last February just weeks after the dear Queen had died. There had been an outpouring of grief and the whole country had gone into mourning. The only good to come of it was that they had been inundated with orders for black gowns and they had all worked night and day to complete them by the second of February, the date of Her Majesty’s funeral. Rackham had simply turned up, walking into the house as though he had never been absent, and Kitty had been caught up in the blazing row that had erupted between him and Bella. He had said he hadn’t come for a fight, and he had brought a huge bouquet of flowers for Bella, a small photograph of Leonie in a silver frame, a basket of fruit from Covent Garden for the ‘other ladies’, and a pound of bullseyes for the children.

Bella had stormed into the room and come right out with the accusation that he had been responsible for Sir Desmond knowing about the house in Tanner’s Passage. When Mr Rackham had denied it, she had thrown the flowers at his head and, as if she was a clockwork toy wound up until her spring was nearly busting, Bella had told him exactly what she thought of him. She had used swear words that had made Kitty gasp in surprise. It was as if one of the carved stone cherubs in the graveyard, where Ma and Pa and her little brothers rested, had opened its rosebud lips and come out with language that would have done justice to a Billingsgate porter. Bella had finished up by listing all Miss Iris’s many faults, and she had accused Mr Rackham of making up to her for her money. That, she had said, made him the lowest sort of creature that crawled on the earth’s surface.

Kitty scratched her head, puzzled. So what if he was engaged to Miss Iris? That was his business although, as far as she could see, he must be either mad or desperate to hitch himself to such a mean, nasty woman. Bella seemed to have forgotten that it was Mr Rackham who had journeyed through snow and ice, in a borrowed motor car, to rescue her from Mableton Manor, and that he had gone to prison for biffing Sir Desmond on the nose.

Kitty pressed so hard on the paper that she broke the point on her pencil, and had to search the drawer for a penknife. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Perhaps she would finish the orders early in the morning. She didn’t want to risk making a mistake and catching the rough edge of Maria’s tongue. Now there was a woman you didn’t want to cross if you could avoid it! Maggie might moan a bit and have a grumble; she could be blooming grumpy, if pushed too far, but her tempers were all flare and soon fizzled out. Maria was another kettle of fish altogether, and when she lost her temper, you’d better watch out. Kitty had never seen a volcano erupt, but she had a vague idea that it must be something like Maria when she let fly.

Getting to her feet, Kitty set everything straight on the desk and, as she went to leave the room, she caught sight of her reflection in one of the long mirrors. The girl who stared back at her with a hint of a smile was a far different person from skinny little Kitty Cox, the scullery maid. She had grown at least a couple of inches in height and, although she was still reed slim, she now had soft curves above and below her tiny waist. Kitty did a little twirl, casting a critical eye over her appearance. She had made herself a white cotton lawn blouse, with a high neck and pintucks down the front, and a navy-blue, serge skirt that was both neat and practical. With her hair put up in the fashionable cottage-loaf style, she was confident that she could pass for eighteen, even though her eighteenth birthday was not until July. At least that was her aim, and it had seemed to work as far as the clients were concerned.

‘Miss Kitty Cox,’ Kitty said, addressing her reflection, and giggling. ‘You’re barmy!’ Her stomach rumbled in answer and Kitty suddenly realised that she was starving hungry and had not eaten since dinner time. ‘No,’ she said, shaking a finger at herself. ‘You’ve got to remember that it’s lunch at dinner time and dinner at tea time.’

Still chuckling at her own silliness, Kitty left the salon with one last, loving look around, closing the door behind her. Still, she thought, as she made her way down the back stairs to the kitchen, it wasn’t so easy moving up in society; leaving Tanner’s Passage and starting up the business had taken its toll on everyone. Whereas before they had been united in the common struggle to survive, things were not quite so rosy now.

For the first time, they were squabbling amongst themselves. Maggie grumbled that she was getting fed up with doing all the cooking and washing, as well as looking after her children and, on top of that, having to spend long hours at the treadle machine. Betty did the cutting and, although her rheumaticky fingers wouldn’t allow her to use a needle, she was able to use the sewing machine and probably worked hardest of them all. Although Betty never moaned, and was always ready to step in as a peacemaker, Kitty sensed that Polly’s death had ripped a great hole in Betty’s heart, and that she was sad at having left her memories locked up in the old house.

Betty missed Jem terribly, Kitty knew that, and she missed him too, much more than she would ever have thought possible. His letters were infrequent and disappointingly short, packed with anecdotes about his travels but with little reference to his feelings or emotions. Kitty sighed and fingered her half of the gold sovereign that never left her neck; she had told him not to bother with the lovey-dovey stuff, but a few affectionate words would have been a great comfort. Confused by the turbulent emotions that woke her in the middle of the night, Kitty couldn’t help wondering if Jem had taken her at her word and given up hope of ever winning her love. If he had, then she had only herself to blame and, after all, just being friends was what she had always wanted. Wasn’t it? She didn’t need a man to tell her what to do; she was well on her way to fulfilling her ambition to become a fashionable modiste. Shrugging her shoulders, Kitty opened the kitchen door.

Maggie had left a pan of vegetable soup simmering on the hob and Kitty’s mouth watered as she sniffed the delicious aroma. Taking a bowl from the dresser, she helped herself to a generous portion. Setting it down on the table she cut a thick slice of bread and spread it with butter. The soup was good and filling and, although they still had to watch the pennies, living frugally, no one went hungry now. The food they ate was plain, but it was wholesome, and there was more than enough to go round.

Sitting back in her chair, Kitty was aware of the sounds coming from the street above the basement window: the carriages and hanson cabs rattling past with the clip-clop of horses’ feet and the sound of the newsvendor’s cries on the corner of Sackville Street and Piccadilly. Indoors the house was drowsing in evening silence. The children would have been tucked up in their beds in the attic room for a good hour. Maggie and Betty would be relaxing in the sitting room on the first floor, although, Kitty thought, Maggie was probably darning socks or mending the children’s clothes. If Betty was not writing a long letter to Jem, she was more than likely having a quiet snooze. Bella and Maria would be at the theatre by now and preparing for the evening show.

A feeling of sadness crept into Kitty’s heart as she thought of Bella who, despite her continuing success on the stage, and the fact that Humphrey Chester obviously adored her, seemed deeply unhappy. Cupping her hands on her chin, Kitty thought hard. She knew that Bella was miserable because she was separated from Leonie – that was only natural – but was she also still pining for Mr Edward? Kitty shook her head, not knowing the answer, but was suddenly aware that she must do something to help. She couldn’t make the war in South Africa finish, or bring Mr Edward home safely, but if she could discover the new nanny’s daily routine, she could tell Bella when Leonie might be out for a walk in the park. If she saw that Leonie was well and happy, then it might ease the pain of separation.

Kitty jumped up from the table and, piling her dishes in the stone sink, she seized her shawl from the back of the chair and let herself out of the tradesmen’s entrance.

It was a balmy May evening, and the sun had gone down in a fiery blaze, leaving crimson streaks slashed across the sky and deep purple shadows between the rows of tall houses. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Kitty quickened her pace. At the end of the street she turned right into Piccadilly, heading in the direction of Dover Street. She had only a vague plan of what she would do once she got there, but she wasn’t afraid to face any of those who had tormented her in the past. She could even face Mr Warner or Mrs Brewster, if she had to, and as for Olive and Dora … ! Kitty squared her shoulders and ran lightly down the area steps to rap on the door.

Luckily it was Florrie who opened it and her face crumpled into a grin. ‘Why Kitty Cox, just look at you.’

‘Hello, Florrie. Can I come in for a minute or two?’

Florrie glanced nervously over her shoulders. ‘I dunno about that, Kitty. Mrs Dixon wouldn’t like it.’

‘Who is it, Florrie?’

Kitty peered over Florrie’s broad shoulder as she recognised George’s voice. ‘George, it’s me, Kitty.’

Pushing Florrie aside, George came to the door, grinning broadly. ‘Kitty, you’re a sight for sore eyes, my girl.’

Kitty took a step backwards, looking George up and down as she took in the details of his footman’s uniform. ‘Why, George, I didn’t know you’d got yourself promoted.’

George puffed his chest out so that the brass buttons on his uniform looked in danger of flying off in all directions. ‘I should say so. I’m second footman now and I daresay I’ll be first footman before long, that is if James and Dora get hitched.’

‘James and Dora? I thought he was sweet on Jane?’

‘That was yesterday,’ George said, grinning. ‘Jane ran off with the baker’s boy. We got a new girl now.’

Kitty shivered as a cool breeze whipped down the stone steps, bringing with it a flurry of bits of straw and paper from the street above. ‘Can I come in?’

George stepped back into the house with an expansive wave of his hands. ‘Of course you can, and Florrie will make you a cup of tea.’

‘Hold on, George,’ Florrie said, backing into the scullery. ‘What if Mrs Dixon sees Kitty?’

George frowned. ‘She’s got a point, Kitty. Better stay here and say what you’ve got to say.’ He turned to Florrie. ‘You go and keep the old girl busy, while I have a chin-wag with Kitty.’

‘You always were soft on her,’ Florrie said, sniffing. ‘It’s not fair. I wanted to hear what Kitty has to say.’

‘And I’m your superior,’ George said, bridling. ‘Be a good girl, Flo, and do as you’re told.’

Florrie snorted and flounced off into the kitchen.

‘Well then,’ George said, leaning his shoulders against the doorjamb. ‘What’s up?’

Looking him up and down, Kitty could hardly believe how much George had changed. He seemed to have grown at least four inches, and his mop of wild, carroty hair was sleeked down with Macassar oil. The dark green footman’s uniform suited and flattered him, and his newfound air of assurance was oddly comical and yet endearing. She smiled. ‘Nothing, George! I just thought I’d look you up for old time’s sake.’

George blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I say, Kitty. Really?’

She couldn’t lie. ‘Well, that’s half the truth and I am pleased to see you, but mostly I wanted to find out about Miss Leonie so that I could tell her poor ma, who is still fretting something awful for her little girl.’

George seemed to think about this, frowning a bit at first and then his freckled face broke into a grin. ‘So you are pleased to see me just a bit?’