A Thimbleful of Hope Page 12
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Have you any plans for tomorrow?’
‘I’m going to Rochester and Chatham to meet with members of the grocery trade.’
‘Oh?’ She felt a hollow ache in her chest. The honeymoon was well and truly over. ‘What shall I do?’
‘I don’t know. You must entertain yourself, my darling.’
‘Perhaps I shall go and visit Mama and my sisters.’
‘I’d prefer you not to see them more than once or twice a week. It would look bad if it appeared that you preferred their company to your husband’s. You have duties to attend to here: to continue supervising the unpacking; to spend the allowance I’ve given you on ornaments and pictures to make our house a home.’
Her heart sank a little. She’d liked the idea of having a household of her own, but the idea of running it seemed rather dull.
‘In the afternoon, you can do some painting or embroidery, whatever you wish. Don’t confront me over my absences, but trust me when I say that your father and I are on the cusp of acquiring great riches.’
In the morning, she was up early to eat breakfast with him.
‘I’ll be home by six, my love,’ he said. ‘Oh, and I’d like you to be ready and waiting for me, wearing one of your evening gowns, not an ordinary day dress. We’re dining at the Lloyds’ – if your father and I are going to make waves in the wine trade, we have to explore all options.’
‘Is it a business dinner?’
‘In a way – it’s an opportunity to make contacts with the right people.’
‘Aren’t the Lloyds shopkeepers?’
‘Oh, that’s rather toplofty of you, Violet. We are all the same: flesh and blood.’
‘I didn’t mean to sound—’
‘You will accompany me as my wife – your beauty, if not your conversation, will impress and oil the wheels of any future negotiation. Don’t look so anxious – you will do very well, I think. You are such a sweet little thing. Je t’adore, ma chérie,’ and then he continued in French. He had said that he loved her, but it was as if he had forgotten that she didn’t understand much of his native language.
‘Arvin, you’ll have to teach me more French conversation if I’m to keep up.’
‘We’ll have plenty of time for that in the future.’ He rested his hands on the curve of her waist and planted a kiss on her lips. ‘I’ll see you later. Enjoy taking charge of your new establishment, Mrs Brooke,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.
She followed him into the hall where Jacques helped him into his black frock coat and brushed some imaginary dust from his shoulders as, like a dandy, he pulled down his wristbands and straightened his necktie.
‘How do I look?’ he asked her.
‘Very … manly,’ she said, and she could tell this had pleased him. She waved goodbye and watched him walk down the road in the direction of the office to meet her father. Jacques closed the front door, and she was alone with the servants and wondering what she should do.
‘Mrs Rayfield usually went through the menus with Cook on a Monday,’ May said helpfully from behind her. ‘You could have a word with the housekeeper.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Taking a deep breath, Violet went into the kitchen where the housekeeper was whisking eggs in a large blue-and-whiteware bowl. ‘Mrs Davis, I’d like to talk about this week’s dinners.’
She looked up and stared at her, her eyes narrow and darker than the raisins that were heaped up on the brass scales alongside her.
‘I took the initiative and chose ’em myself, according to what the butcher ’ad in ’is shop.’
‘Mr Brooke has certain preferences,’ Violet began, daunted by the fact that Mrs Davis was at least thirty years her senior, and much more experienced in household matters.
‘I’m sure he has, missus,’ Mrs Davis cut in. ‘But you ’ave to see it from my point of view. Mr Brooke’s given me a certain budget that I ’ave to stick to.’
‘I see.’ Violet felt a little hurt that he hadn’t seen fit to mention it to her. ‘My husband and I are dining out tonight, so we will not require any dinner.’
‘Ah, it would have been useful to have had more notice because I’ve already started on it. Never mind – the servants and I will eat what we can, and I’ll make something of the leftovers tomorrow.’
‘I won’t have Mr Brooke dining on leftovers,’ Violet said rather sharply. ‘We will have some fresh fish with a French sauce, a court bouillon.’
‘If you want French cuisine, you need to find a chef, a monsieur like the family down the road ’ave – they’re frog eaters.’ Mrs Davis grimaced. ‘I cook plain and simple dishes that are good for the digestion. Tomorrow, you shall dine on pigeon pie and leftovers, and quince. In my opinion, fish should be served as one course of many, not as a main.’
Violet steeled herself against the housekeeper’s insolence.
‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. I might be young, but I’m mistress of this house, and you will treat me with respect. There are plenty of housekeepers looking for work in Dover.’
‘All right, missus, I catch your drift,’ Mrs Davis said, backing down.
‘I’ll thank you to show me where to find the ingredients for peppermint drops.’
‘Oh no, I’ll make ’em for you. Go on.’
Violet left the room and went upstairs to her boudoir to change into a grey and blue striped dress with beading down the bodice, day wear that was suitable for receiving guests, in case anyone should call. And they did, the ladies of Dover keen to make themselves acquainted with the new Mrs Brooke.
They left calling cards and spent twenty minutes each with her in the parlour, admiring the grandeur and size of the house, marvelling that she had married at eighteen and before her elder sister, and inviting her to various social events: a tea party on behalf of a charity for poor orphans; dinner in Deal; a soiree to celebrate a coming of age.
When the vicar’s wife had left, Jacques showed Ottilie into the parlour. Violet breathed a sigh of relief at not having to pretend that she was the sophisticated lady of the house in front of her sister.
‘Thank goodness it’s you,’ she said, greeting her.
‘It’s lovely to have you back. We’ve missed you.’
‘Do sit down. How is Mama? How’s John? Tell me everything!’
They sat and talked for two hours before Ottilie decided she should return home.
Violet promised to call at the house at Camden Crescent within the next few days, an engagement that turned into regular visits on the excuse that Mama’s malaise was deepening.
Over the next few months, she settled into a routine of making and receiving calls in the mornings and embroidering with May in the afternoons. She taught her the basic stitches, while she practised gold work and silk shading for a sumptuous wall hanging of Dover harbour with the castle above, but the time seemed to pass very slowly. As the grand longcase clock in the parlour ticked away the minutes and chimed the hours, her thoughts would drift back to William.
Miss Whiteway had been right about women needing an occupation; running a house was not the pinnacle of a married woman’s ambition as her parents seemed to think.
She wasn’t even yet with child, although not for want of trying on Arvin’s behalf. She missed his company when he was out and had grown quite fond of him. The peppermint drops that Mrs Davis made from sifted sugar, egg whites and oil of peppermint, beaten together and dried on top of the range, had done the trick to freshen his breath on the occasions when he took garlic with his meals.
She looked forward, too, to the days when her husband invited people to dine at their house. She took pride in organising the dinner parties where Arvin and her father entertained anyone and everyone who might be persuaded to stock their wines. The proprietors of many of Dover’s hotels and hostelries were keen to invest, and Arvin and her father were pleased with the way the business was taking off, and she was delighted to play her part in it as the gracious hostess.
On a warm afternoon in early July, almost nine months after her marriage, Violet was in the parlour, showing May how to improve her stitches.
‘Here, let me show you. The French knot is simple when you get the hang of it. The tension of your thread is too tight which means you can’t slide the needle through the loops. Hold the working thread taut as you pull the needle through – that way your knots always look the same. If the knot goes wrong, cut it away.’
‘I have a lot more to learn. ’Ow many times should I wrap the knot?’
‘Once or twice is best,’ Violet said. ‘You can change the look of the stitches by loosening the tension. That’s right – they make tiny flowers.’
‘I don’t know ’ow you do it so neat.’
‘It takes lots of practice. You’re doing well – you have a gift for it.’ She heard the clock and counted the chimes: one, two, three, four, five …
‘Oh no, Mr Brooke will be home in less than an hour,’ she said, securing the end of her thread before removing the needle and putting it away in the sewing box.
May rested her embroidery on the arm of her chair, while the bees crawled around on the hydrangeas outside the open window.
‘Can I help you dress for dinner?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
On her way upstairs, Violet noticed Arvin’s post on the silver tray in the hall – there were two letters: one which looked business-like, addressed in a masculine hand; the other sent from France. She picked it up and held it to the light, then guiltily put it down again, before going up to her room where May did her hair up for her, parting it in the middle and creating low chignons at the nape of her neck. May fastened the buttons down the back of her bodice while Violet adjusted her lace collar.
‘You look beautiful, missus,’ May said. ‘I’ve always envied you for your hair – it’s such a wonderful colour, like white gold.’
Violet gave her a wry smile. It was a shame that it wasn’t enough to keep her husband at home. He was late again that evening, heading straight upstairs to change, and although she tried to hide her irritation, she didn’t quite manage it.
‘Arvin, do you really need to work all the hours God sends?’ she asked when he joined her in the parlour to escort her to the dining room. ‘I was under the impression that we were already comfortably off.’
He frowned.
‘I’m doing this for us. I’m compelled to work hard to prove myself. All I want is for the gentlemen of Dover to accept me as one of them.’
‘At least you are here now,’ she said, noticing how weary he looked and feeling guilty for riling him. ‘Let’s dine – Mrs Davis has cooked sole meunière.’
His expression brightened.
They took their places at the long table in the dining room which was adorned with one of the cloths that Violet and May had worked on together, and she added, ‘May I remind you that we have an invitation to dine at the Churchwards’ this Saturday.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. I should have said. We will have to decline.’
‘At this late notice?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve received a letter from Claudette.’
‘There is something wrong?’
‘I must go home. The roof of the chateau is falling in.’
‘Can’t she take on a builder to do the repairs?’
‘She’s afraid they’ll take advantage.’
‘Surely this can be negotiated through correspondence! The builders can write to you.’
‘The last time I left my sister in charge of emergency works, the men concerned left it half finished, and I ended up paying over the odds to have it made good. The fabric of the chateau is in a delicate state. I’ll book my ticket for the mail packet to Calais first thing tomorrow.’
‘Oh, but I will come with you.’
‘I think it would be a great sorrow to your mother, if you should leave Dover while she’s in such a poor state of health.’
‘I’m married to you – it’s my duty to be companion to my husband, not my mother.’
‘Could you live with the regret if she should pass away while you were abroad? No, I thought not.’
‘I don’t understand – you ask me not to spend time with my sisters, yet you’re prepared to drop everything when your sister asks for you.’
‘What do you expect when she’s on her own?’
‘She should come and live with us – she wouldn’t be obliged to show her face.’
‘It’s a kind offer, Violet, but no. The weather wouldn’t suit her – she likes the warmth. Now, I have responsibilities to you, my sister and my family home.’
‘And to the business,’ she added for him.
‘That’s right. Although it’s a nuisance, this trip will kill two birds with one stone because I’ll be able to check how last summer’s wine is maturing, and visit some of the local vintners. Your father expects me to apply pressure on them to keep their prices down.’
‘Shall I come with you next time then?’ she asked hopefully as May brought the first course, a salad with salad dressing. It wasn’t her favourite by any means, but Arvin had persuaded her that eating lettuce and herbs was beneficial to correct the tendency of meat to become putrid when inside the stomach.
‘I expect so,’ he said.
‘How long will you be away for?’
‘At least five or six weeks, if not longer. Let’s face it, it makes sense for me to stay on for the harvest.’
‘I see. Well, what can I say? I can’t change your mind. Arvin, I’ll miss you.’
‘And I’ll miss you too, my little ladybird.’
Arvin left for France the following day, wearing a hat cover over his white hat so that it wouldn’t be discoloured by the smoke from the funnel of the mail packet, and Violet was alone again. Never mind, she thought. She would miss him, but she would make the best of it. While the cat was away, the mice would play.
She sent a note inviting Ottilie to call on her to make the arrangements, and on the servants’ half day, she let her into the house.
‘You look … well, you will take his breath away,’ Violet said, closing the door behind her sister, who had taken great care with her appearance. ‘Is that rouge on your face?’
‘No. It’s the heat …’ Ottilie said, touching her cheek. ‘Are you sure about this? What about your neighbours? Won’t they talk? I don’t want you to get into any trouble.’
‘It’s none of their business – you’ve called to assist me in choosing a piece of bespoke furniture from an artisan’s catalogue, or—’
‘You sound like Eleanor, making things up,’ Ottilie laughed.
‘Anyway, I’ll be here – upstairs with my embroidery,’ Violet added quickly. ‘I’m not going to play gooseberry, but my presence in the house will dispel any gossip.’
‘What about Arvin and Pa?’
‘Arvin won’t be back for weeks and Pa doesn’t call here very often. He’s been left to run the business while Arvin looks after his sister and buys wine in France.’
‘Then I am reassured,’ Ottilie said, smiling. She removed her gloves and checked her bracelet watch. ‘He will be here soon. I can’t thank you enough for this, Violet. I haven’t dared meet with him since Mama caught us out.’
‘That was months ago.’
‘We write to each other once a week and we’ve run into each other in town a few times, but it isn’t the same as talking face to face. Sometimes … sometimes I worry that he will lose patience and someone else will catch his eye and capture his heart.’
‘I think that very unlikely. He lo
ves you. He always has.’ Violet felt a pang of envy as Ottilie gazed at her, her eyes questioning.
‘What about you?’ she said. ‘Are you happy?’
‘I am.’ She smiled as she heard a knock.
‘It’s him,’ Ottilie squealed as Violet opened the door. ‘Dear John.’
John Chittenden, dressed in a coat, waistcoat and checked trousers, stepped inside, keeping his hat on until Violet closed the door behind him, when he took it off. He tried to smooth down his hair and dropped his hat.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, diving down to pick it up at the same time as Ottilie bent to retrieve it. They both stopped, each with a hand on the hat, looking at each other.
‘My love, I am so glad to see you,’ Ottilie whispered. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed you.’
‘Oh, I can,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I’ll leave you,’ Violet said, choking up.
She didn’t think they’d noticed her disappear upstairs to her empty room where she sat down and picked up her hoop and thread. Her heart wasn’t in it today. She could hear low murmuring and laughter: John’s voice and her sister’s. She turned her mind to Arvin – what was he doing today? Barking orders in French to the roofers? Walking through the vineyards, arm in arm with his sister – she tried to imagine what she was like, but only conjured up a picture of an anonymous young woman in a veil. Did she miss her husband? It was quiet without him – she missed his company at the breakfast table, and at dinner, but apart from that, life was no different.
How would she have felt if she’d loved Arvin with a passion in the same way that Ottilie regarded John? Briefly, she wondered what would have happened if Arvin and her father had never met. Would she have married William? If she had, her life would have been very different. A tide of heat spread across her skin as she imagined William leaning down to kiss her.
Angry at herself for thinking such a thing, she flung down the hoop and thread. She was married to Arvin and it was far too late for regrets. She had to make the most of what she had, and she knew she was one of the lucky ones. When he was at home in the evenings, engagements permitting, they would sit together on the chaise. Arvin would put his arm around her and she would rest her head on his chest and listen to him tell stories about his childhood and the characters he’d met in the winemakers’ caves in France. She had grown affectionate towards her husband, much as Aunt Felicity had predicted.