The Thief of St Martins Page 6

  She had a brief mental image of herself in her fifties and sixties, sitting at that same desk which had been Mrs Carmichael’s, in the dimly-lit back office at the warehouse, slipping out of shoes more fashionable than comfortable, as Mrs Carmichael had often done, and thinking, ‘Oh my poor feet,’ and perhaps pouring herself a little glass of wine—not the gin Mrs Carmichael had been in the habit of drinking, Dottie felt sure she would never develop a taste for gin. Then, when that little ritual was done, like Mrs Carmichael, Dottie would reach for the new batch of designs.

  Dottie smiled as she remembered those times she had watched Mrs Carmichael in her office, pulling off her heaps of heavy, old-fashioned but undeniably valuable jewellery and flinging it down with a crash on top of the wooden desk as if it was of no account whatsoever. Or Mrs Carmichael collapsing into her chair with a groan of relief at the end of one of their shows, or after a cocktail party held for the best customers and their friends, right there in the main hall of the warehouse, for the purpose of wooing clients to buy her latest designs. Mrs Carmichael groaning as she leaned back with her glass of gin and saying, ‘My Gawd, Dot, the things we do to sell a few frocks.’

  She could now perfectly understand for the first time what had kept Mrs Carmichael in her office so late at night, what had spurred her on. At that moment, Dottie felt absolutely certain that life could hold no greater pleasure for her. But Dottie was very young and didn’t yet realise how much she would love her husband and her children, or the joy they would give her just by being part of her life.

  When Mrs Carmichael had left the business to Dottie just six months earlier, Dottie had felt completely overwhelmed by the enormity of the task of running a fashion warehouse, one which already had a good reputation, too good a reputation to risk losing. But even before her patroness had died, Mrs Carmichael had been subtly and slowly bringing Dottie into the business one tiny step at a time. Had she lived longer, Dottie was convinced Mrs Carmichael would have increased Dottie’s involvement and responsibilities still further, giving her an apprenticeship of sorts. Dottie had worked for Mrs Carmichael as a mannequin for almost five years, starting off on a casual basis during the school holidays, then working more or less full-time after that.

  Mrs Carmichael had often sought Dottie’s opinions about each new range being developed. She had discussed many aspects of the business both formally and over drinks in her office when everyone else had gone home. If Dottie had felt unprepared and ill-equipped to take up the reins of Carmichael and Jennings: Exclusive Modes for Discerning Ladies, she realised now things could have been far worse.

  She’d had a great deal of help. True, some clients had shaken their heads and walked away because of the change, which had greatly worried Dottie, but there remained a small but loyal number of stalwarts, and there were already a few new clients, among them Flora and their mother, who had begun to send in their orders. Dottie had spent some time with her friend Judith Parsons, a seamstress and costumer with a famous London-based moving-pictures company, and the two of them had spent hours discussing many aspects of costuming, sewing and design, and Miss Parsons had been very obliging when Dottie had telephoned her a number of times during that first two or three months.

  And now, here she was, looking through her first complete set of designs for the new range of styles for the following season. They always worked two full seasons ahead, so Dottie was looking at the designs for Autumn and Winter 1935 to 1936.

  She took a deep breath, mentally taking a step back to try to view the designs objectively. Then she turned to the first page.

  She held her breath as she looked at it. A long overcoat. Extra detailing to the shoulders, the new lapel shape. There were the buttons for fastening the coat, with extra, decorative buttons for the cuffs of the sleeves, and a belt to cinch in the garment and accentuate the waist. In many ways it was an ordinary garment. But they had sought to lift it above the utilitarian by the choice of material. Attached by dressmakers’ pins to the bottom of the page were six tiny rectangles of fabric. There were two types of fabric, a heavyweight gaberdine and a wool, and for each fabric there were three colour choices: a light cream in both fabrics, a ruby red for the gaberdine, an emerald green for the wool, and again for each fabric, a navy-blue. The thread used would match the fabrics, obviously. Sample buttons had been tacked to the page with huge white cotton stitches to keep them from falling off and getting lost.

  Dottie assessed the whole thing as critically as she could. It wasn’t quite right. There was something wrong with the epaulettes. They were definitely too wide. She wrote a neat pencil note and a tiny sketch in the top corner of the page. She realised she was pleased overall: both with the design, and with her own ability to assess it. It had been her idea to change all the names of the garments from Mrs Carmichael’s system of using women’s names, and instead had created garment names from situations that her customers might relate to or aspire to. That had gone down very well with the customers currently ordering the Spring-Summer 1935 range. The name of the coat in this design was ‘Shopping in Town’.

  She turned to the next page: a rather daring negligee set the colour of mulled wine that she had named ‘Christmas in Paris’. She knew it would sell in huge numbers; and it would be as popular with husbands as with their wives.

  At last she slept and was rather relieved to wake in the morning unable to recall her restless dreams. She sat up in bed and looked about her, and before she’d thought about the possibility of a bath and some breakfast, there was a tap on the door, and a smiling young girl in her early teens brought in a cup of tea, and drew back the curtains to reveal a weak but welcome sun shining in at the window.

  Dottie had toast and more tea in the little back room of the pub, and even as she was wiping her mouth on the napkin and wondering what to do next, she was summoned to the telephone.

  She said, ‘Hello?’ eagerly into the receiver, expecting to hear her mother’s voice. And it was—in a manner of speaking—her mother.

  ‘This is Cecilia Cowdrey,’ said an imperious voice. ‘I am speaking with Miss Dorothy Manderson, am I not?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dottie said, her heart pounding. ‘It’s me, Aunt Cecilia.’

  ‘I understand that you are staying at the public house in our village. I can’t think why you’ve arrived a week early,’ said the voice, still cold, still expressing no particular pleasure at speaking with her long-lost child. ‘Lavinia telephoned me an hour ago and told me everything. It really is very silly, but I suppose you’re young, and these things happen. In any case, you may come to us a week earlier than agreed.’

  It made her sound like a paying guest rather than a relative, Dottie thought, and was on the point of thanking her, at the same rebelling at courtesy due to her aunt’s tone. But the voice swept on, not waiting for Dottie to agree or venture an opinion. ‘Perhaps you’ll arrive this afternoon in time to join us for tea, shall we say at four o’clock?’ It was phrased as a question but really it was an instruction. Without awaiting Dottie’s response, Cecilia said, ‘We’ll see you then, Dorothy.’ And the phone hummed in Dottie’s ear. The line was dead.

  She stayed on the bench beside the telephone in this quiet part of the pub. She felt... she felt as though she had caused annoyance and inconvenience. She felt she had put everyone out, when really it was she who had been put out. She felt unwelcome, unwanted. She felt she was most definitely not wanted. She blotted her eyes quickly and straightened her shoulders. As her m... She caught herself up, an odd flipping sensation in her stomach. She’d been about to say to herself: as her mother always said in the face of a crisis, ‘Chin up, shoulders back.’

  But of course, it was this woman who was really her mother. This one who had just told her what time to arrive then hung up the phone, her voice cold, and with no discernible love for her missing child.

  Dottie knew it must be difficult for her m...for Aunt Cecilia. She knew that and understood it. And she had absolutely no desire to cause pro
blems for her aunt, or to embarrass her in any way. But after all, it had been Cecilia’s idea that Dottie should come and visit. Was it really so much to ask that the woman should show some warmth, some welcoming kindness? Even if the warmth was just the conventional affection of an aunt to her niece?

  The young man was behind the bar already, wiping glassware again. She went across to speak to him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m still not quite sure if I’ll need my room again tonight,’ she said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I should have a better idea later on. I shall be out for the afternoon and at least part of the evening.’

  ‘Will you require dinner, madam?’

  Would she? She couldn’t be certain. She hoped not. But her aunt’s invitation had been vague, and the visit had not been defined by a period of time beyond arriving at four o’clock. Dottie had to say something, though.

  ‘No,’ she said, making a hasty decision. ‘That’s quite all right, thank you. I shall be making other arrangements. I hope it will be all right to let you know about the room later? As I said, I’m not really sure...’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, madam. If I haven’t heard from you by last orders, I shall assume you’ve left us. I have your address for the invoice.’

  ‘Of course. Hopefully I’ll have firm plans well before last orders.’

  With further thanks, she left him and returned to her room. She packed her things ready to take to her car. If she was to stay at her aunt’s, she’d need her things, and if she didn’t stay, then she’d be going back home anyway.

  She sat by the window. What was she to do until four o’clock? It wasn’t even ten o’clock now. She had six hours to wait.

  Chapter Six

  This time when she rang, the door was opened almost immediately. But not by a butler. A maid stood there with a big smile on her face. She gave her name as ‘Annie, miss,’ and with a curtsey said, ‘Welcome to St Martins House, miss. May I take your coat?’

  Dottie was relieved by this pleasant welcome and most of her nerves left her.

  Annie conducted her across a gloomy hall crammed with the dusty collections of several generations and into the drawing room where the family had assembled to meet her. If Dottie thought she’d have time alone with Cecilia Cowdrey to talk or to at least greet one another, she was mistaken. Dottie was perfectly accustomed to entering a room full of people, but on this occasion, it was horribly as if she’d come out onto a stage at the theatre, and a demanding audience was expecting a performance superior to any she could give. They were all looking at her.

  A tall young man came forward, a sardonic grin on his face. He held out his hand. ‘Cousin Dottie, welcome to St Martins. We’re delighted to see you. I’m your cousin Guy.’ Taking Dottie’s hand, Guy leaned to kiss her on the cheek, then drew her after him to make the rest of the introductions.

  First was her aunt, Cecilia Cowdrey, looking so like Mrs Manderson, and so like Guy, tall, slim, but her carefully controlled hair was iron-grey where Guy’s was dark. Aunt Cecilia came forward to kiss Dottie’s cheek with cold lips that barely touched her. ‘Hello dear. My, how very like Lavinia you are.’

  That surprised Dottie, and threw her a little off-balance. She couldn’t remember anyone ever saying that she resembled her mother physically, and in this particular case, it seemed rather an odd thing to say. There didn’t appear to be anything in the remark, yet it puzzled Dottie, as did Guy’s curious emphasis on the word ‘cousin’. She managed a polite smile and was then abruptly enveloped in a tight hug by her cousin Imogen, who warmly kissed Dottie on the cheek, in total contrast to her mother.

  Looking at Imogen was a little like looking in a mirror. The similarities between herself and Imogen added to Dottie’s sense of things feeling rather odd. It hadn’t occurred to her there may be a familial resemblance, and it was disconcerting. Imogen was slim and tallish, though not quite as tall as Dottie. Her hair was dark and wavy, as Dottie’s was, and her eyes too were dark. Then there was the shape of the brow, the chin. There was no doubting they were related. Imogen wore no make-up, however and the only jewellery she wore consisted of a dainty brooch, such as ladies of the previous generation favoured, pinned on the brown jacket that matched her skirt. She looked rather more than her twenty-nine years of age. Her skin was pale and dry-looking, with lines around the eyes and mouth. But her smile was warm, lighting up her soft dark eyes. She was clearly very excited to see Dottie, and Dottie felt very grateful for that.

  ‘It’s all my fault, you’re not angry are you? Mummy says I’m a fool, but I couldn’t help it, I just had to do it.’

  Dottie looked at her, confused.

  ‘It’s my fault. You arriving early, I mean. You see it was me who invited you to stay. I put the note into the envelope for you. Not Mummy. I didn’t tell Mummy until yesterday that I’d invited you.’

  The penny began to drop. Cecilia Cowdrey said in her low voice which conveyed displeasure. ‘She didn’t even do that right. Stupid girl. My own fault, I suppose, I shouldn’t have trusted Imogen with a letter to take all the way downstairs to the hall table.’

  ‘Will you forgive me? It just seemed like too good a chance to miss. The envelope hadn’t stuck down properly, so I quickly ran upstairs and wrote a note for you, inviting you to come and stay. I expect I put the wrong date. I’m so, so sorry. But I was just so excited at the idea of you coming here.’

  She did indeed look wretched, Dottie thought, and excited. Dottie smiled.

  ‘Of course I forgive you. I’m very glad to have come.’

  Imogen gripped Dottie in a tight hug, and exclaimed, somewhat like a child, ‘Oh goody! Thank you, thank you!’

  She grabbed Dottie’s arm and led her away from Guy and Cecilia, towards the room’s two other occupants, chattering the whole time.

  ‘It’s so lovely of you not to mind. I’m so excited you’re here, Dottie. It’s lovely to have you here. May I call you Dottie? Or do you prefer Dorothy? Dottie? That’s lovely, Such a lovely name. And this is our big brother Leo, and his lovely wife June. Oh this is lovely!’ Imogen added as Dottie smiled and said hello to Leo and June.

  Leo shook Dottie’s hand rather too firmly, and gave her a tight thin smile, but said nothing, whilst his wife leaned forward with her neck, without moving her feet, and kissed the air three inches from Dottie’s left ear. She too, remained silent, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Dottie.

  It was a lukewarm reception at best, but as the two families had maintained only a distant contact over the years, they were in effect strangers to one another. Dottie wasn’t too surprised that things were awkward. Only Imogen seemed excited and happy, bouncing on her toes and clutching her hands tightly together in front of her like a child about to go to a party. Yet, Dottie thought, she’s a full nine years older than me. But it was nice to have someone on her side, so Dottie stayed close to Imogen, which seemed to excite her cousin even more. And at least now, some of the mystery of her arrival had been explained. Between the Mandersons’ own mix-up and her cousin’s secret invitation, it was all a lot clearer.

  Cecilia directed Guy to ring for afternoon tea to be brought in, for which Dottie was very grateful—she only hoped her tummy wouldn’t rumble loudly, she was so hungry after the long hours spent walking in the village or sitting on her bed in the pub, looking through her designs once again.

  Everyone resumed their seats and sat looking at one another. No one seemed to know what to say. She longed to say something, to make a comment about the room, but it was neither airy, nor bright, nor usefully large, but was dim because of the trees pressing close up to the house on the outside. Inside it was crowded with all manner of knick-knacks: porcelain, brass jugs and plates, china dogs, china shepherds and shepherdesses, glass fish and birds, fans and feathers, trophies, horrid tusks and antlers, and shiny-eyed dull-looking fish or stuffed birds in glass cases loaded onto half a dozen small tables. It was rather like being in some strange museum. How she would love to fling
open a window or simply sweep all the clutter into a waste basket, just to see some clear surfaces. She stayed silent, her hands clasped in her lap, and wracked her brains to think of something to say.

  Guy rang the bell and took his seat again. Whilst they waited for the tea to arrive, and after exchanging yet another smile with the fidgeting Imogen, Dottie thought, do please let the tea arrive soon, at least that will give us something to talk about. Then inspiration struck and she said, a little tentatively, ‘Is Uncle Lewis at home or away on business?’ As soon as she’d said it, she wondered if they would think her nosy or rude. She had an immediate sense of having done something improper.

  There was a short bark of mirthless laughter from Leo. ‘Where else would Father be but away “on business”?’

  Guy and Imogen nodded in response to this, whilst Cecilia merely frowned at her eldest son. Dottie decided she’d better keep quiet rather than risk asking another out-of-place question.

  The tea tray was brought in by the same maid who had answered the door. She sent a little smile in Dottie’s direction then bobbed to Cecilia and left. The tea was poured by Cecilia and the cups handed round their little circle.

  The tea-service was very fine. Rather too fine for a simple family tea. Dottie knew if she held an empty cup up to the light, she would be able to see through it. Eggshell porcelain. She detested such fragile china. She could immediately think of at least four men and even two ladies—as well as herself—who could not be trusted with such delicate things.

  The tea was so pale it was barely tea at all. Stop being critical, she told herself, we can’t all be the same. Looking up she smiled brightly at her relations.

  Imogen was by Dottie’s side, and she began to talk about this and that, flitting from one thing to another, as if she had to cram everything in quickly or lose her chance. But it was a good thing Imogen was a talker, because no one else seemed to have a single word to say. Dottie sipped her tea, glad of something to do.