Francine 2

Chapter 2

The little shop had been built in the previous century, and had a bow-fronted window, filled with small panes of glass, many of them with the singular swirl of the ‘bull’s eye’ in the centre of the cheaper crown glass.   The bull’s eye  was from the point where the thrown molten sheet was attached to the tool used to extract it from the furnace. Plate glass was so common these days, and less expensive now that steam engines were used to polish and grind the sheets, that the crown glass was becoming quaint.

The shop frontage was short, the usual five and a half yards wide, but the shop ran back a goodly distance, filling most of the land the property was built on. The building at the back was one storey, with skylights, a warehouse and workshop combined.  Francine turned the big key to let herself and her new aunts into the shop, with its wide counter and the rack of fabrics behind it. 

“I would like to start with personal effects,” said Francine. “Let us get that over and done with.”

Miss Cotton embraced her; Miss Tavistock just touched her shoulder, but it meant the same thing.  It would hurt, going home, without Maman there.  Francine took a deep breath and went through the door behind the counter, and up the stairs to the small apartment over the shop.  There was a parlour across the front of the shop, and at the back, looking down on the workshop, her mother’s bedroom and a diminutive kitchen, of sorts in the dressing-room, with a closed stove on one side, and a meat safe on the other.  Francine sighed. The closed stove had been her mother’s pride and joy, and meant that they were not dependent on the village bakery for food.  It meant, too, that Mme DuChesne might enjoy French recipes. 

“The stove might as well stay for the next tenant,” said Francine. “It was a terrible business getting it in, and up the stairs, and I have no desire to try to reverse the process.”

“It can be specified in any agreement,” said Miss Tavistock, “And it made clear that it belongs to the house.”

Francine nodded.

“I will want the pans for when I am wed, and to set up house,” she said. “But perhaps they may be packed away in a tea chest.”

“Yes, and Nell will have them taken to the Priory, with other things you wish to keep,” said Miss Cotton. “There’s a tea chest downstairs behind the counter, and Henderson is keeping any he has.”

“A grocer in a small place will not have many,” ventured Francine.

“We may have to have Jakes put you together some boxes,” said Miss Cotton.

Francine shuddered.  Jakes was the local carpenter, but he was also the coffin maker.

“Maman...” said Francine. “Is ... is the coffin in her bedroom? Or the parlour?”

“No, little one, the vicar kindly agreed to have it in the church until tomorrow when the funeral is arranged,” said Miss Tavistock, gruffly.

Francine heaved a sigh of relief.

“I want to go and see her, and pay my last respects, but I would not want to think of her ... here... while I am removing all she owned,” said Francine.

“Effie was quite right to insist on having her moved, then,” said Miss Cotton.  “I wondered if you would not want her disturbed from her house before the funeral.”

“It is not Mama, for she is in heaven with Le Bon Dieu, but ....”

Miss Tavistock patted her shoulder.

It was with some astonishment that Francine suddenly realised that it was brusque Miss Tavistock who understood her feelings better than Miss Cotton; for hitherto, she would have thought of Miss Cotton as the more emotional, who would enter more easily into her feelings.

Mme. DuChesne had not had many belongings, and apart from her mother’s clothes, the only things Francine really wanted to keep were a pretty escritoire, her mother’s writing slope, and her sewing box.  The last was a pretty thing, inlaid with a scene of flowers in different coloured woods, which had come with them from France.  It had cunningly concealed folding legs so it might be set up beside a chair, without having to bend to reach into it.  The escritoire was as like to one Mme. DuChesne had owned in France as was possible.  It had been cheap in an auction, for having been stored where water had damaged the wood.  It had not, however, been waterlogged, and all the damage was superficial.  A lot of polishing had restored it to its former glory.  The writing slope had come from the same auction, and was a little neglected, but once again, polish on the wood and leather had made them like new, and warm white wine had removed most of the stains on the silk lining.

There was a knock on the door, and Francine said,

“Oh, bother!  Cannot people read the sign that we are closed?”

“It might be Lady Rookwood,” said Miss Cotton.  “I will pop down and see.”

She was back soon followed by the smiling figure of Nell, who took Francine’s hands before the girl could curtsey.

“Oh, I am sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you, Lady Rookwood,” said Francine.

“Oh, if you are being adopted by two of my oldest friends, you must call me Nell,” said Nell. “Kit never wanted the title anyway, and spends most of his time trying to be taken as a yeoman farmer, I swear!  But of course, it was his duty to take it up when his brother died.”

“Yes, of course,” said Francine, who understood noblesse oblige, even though she had had very little chance to practice such a concept. “It is most kind of you to offer to store some of my things, for I would not know where to put everything, if the shop is to be available to help someone else.”

“Ah, Miss Cotton told me I would like you, for you are thoughtful. There are fewer émigrés in distress these days, but I have in mind a family made suddenly destitute, through no fault of their own.  The poor woman married her husband, and reared a daughter and two sons, currently aged fourteen, eleven and nine respectively, only to discover that her husband was a polygamist, and that she was suddenly to be considered a fallen woman and her children illegitimate.”

“Oh, how very unfortunate!” cried Miss Cotton.

“Yes, and a shock, too, I am sure,” said Nell. “Especially after all that time.  His first wife was suing for divorce, on grounds of desertion.  Apparently he had married her in the belief she was an heiress, and abandoned her because he found out she was not the beneficiary of her grandfather’s estates. He then married a woman with a comfortable competence, and proceeded to run through her capital without her knowing about it.  And then his first wife did inherit, and decided that it was worth the swingeing cost of a divorce, as the desertion was pretty plain to prove, especially with a second wife.  The first, I believe, wishes to re-marry, and who can blame her, left alone to bring up a daughter. As for Mrs. Ashford, who has resumed her maiden name, but kept the courtesy marital title, she believed herself to be the wife of a wealthy man, and her daughter has no skills at all.  I was hoping, Francine, that I might impose on you to teach her something at least?  Romilda is able enough on the pianoforte, and can embroider, but she will need to learn good plain sewing, and how to hold household accounts.  I do not think it worth putting her in school for a while, for she has no interest in any sort of schoolwork.  George and Frederick might go to the local grammar school.”

“Romilda?  That does not sound English,” said Francine.

“I fear that the father was a devotee of George Frederic Handel; and whilst his sons may have reasonable enough names, in being named after the composer, the daughter is named for a character in one of his operas, which I do not believe is performed now.”

“How unfortunate for her.”

“Indeed, I cannot think that parents do their daughters any favours in bestowing upon them fanciful names from literary sources,” said Nell. “We plan to call our own first daughter ‘Charlotte’ after Kit’s late brother, Charlie, and if instead we have a son, he will be Peter, for a family friend, and Hasdrubel, which is a family name, and in honour of the pirate in the family whose treasure recouped Charlie’s losses.”

“Oh, it is Carthaginian,” said Francine, who enjoyed history.

“Indeed, and his brother was named ‘Hannibal’, but there is no reason to saddle any child with them as first names,” said Nell.

“Well, now I must see to my mother’s clothes, I suppose,” said Francine.  “She had to be turned out well, as an advertisement of her own skill, and I am not sure if I can wear any, for they are designed for a matron, not a young girl.  They might be made over for you, Aunt Anne?” she suggested. “I am not sure they are in a style that suits Aunt Effie.”

“Moreover, I am considerably taller than your Maman was, and broader in various places,” said Euphemia Tavistock.  “They would suit Anne very nicely, but I think that you should keep the burgundy coloured pelisse, it will suit you very well, and is no more matronly than it is young. A pelisse is a pelisse, after all. Also the opera cloak in burnt orange velvet.”

Francine nodded.

“Those we might examine at your cottage ... at home, I mean, after we have packed them in bandboxes to take there. I think the opera cloak would be very fine on you, Aunt Effie, but we may worry about that later.  I have little enough in my own attic bedroom, save my quilt, for all my clothes were packed for school.  I would like the quilt for my bed, please, as it was the first thing Aunt Anne made for me.”

“Of course, child; how lovely that you remember!” said Anne Cotton, moved.

“Why, you were making it when we arrived, and I was a tearful wretch, and you sat me on your lap and told me stories about where all the patches had come from,” said Francine. “And Aunt Effie used it to teach me English as you sewed it.  I love that quilt.”

“Bless the child, you remember that?” Effie sniffed surreptitiously.

Anne did not bother to wipe her tears.

The personal effects were soon dealt with, and the women went down to the shop.  Francine had no hesitation in choosing bonnets for her friends, a villager straw bonnet with cerulean blue silk lining, trimmed with white silk roses and forget-me-knots for Daphne, whose blonde Saxon prettiness would suit it.  For Harriet, whose hair was on the ginger side of chestnut, Francine chose a sage-green silk capote, trimmed with bronze-green ribbons, for Harriet had a bronze-green pelisse which it would suit perfectly.

“Those completed hats and bonnets which you and your aunts do not choose to keep might be sold by private auction,” said Nell.  “Marianne, Lavinia and I all like your mother’s creations, and we are not the only ladies in the neighbourhood.  When you have chosen, I will have any others taken to the Priory, and I will invite all the local ladies to drink tea and bid on bonnets.”

“What an excellent idea!” said Francine.  “Good, and if I may, I will complete those on which she was working, for I know how, even if I have very little desire to be a milliner, to add to them.  There is a most delightful toque in burnt orange with black ostrich feathers, which would suit Aunt Effie to perfection, with that opera cape, and your tan and black Norfolk shawl over it too, Aunt Effie.”

“She’d be good enough to eat,” agreed Anne.

“Well, you must wear the opera cape at need, if you are determined to give it to me,” said Effie.  “Thank you, my dear; I am one of a handful of women who can wear orange fortuitously.”

Francine regarded the fabrics in the shop.

“All of these rolls are started,” she said.  “There are brand new rolls in the warehouse-workshop. Apart from a couple of more exotic fabrics, all of these are good, everyday fabrics, bombazine for mourning and servants, a plain white satin, several calico prints, and a number of muslins, plain in white, pink, green, yellow and blue.  The finer ones are these three fine figured muslins, one which is a swiss spot, one with embroidery along one side, and one with a satin-wove stripe.  Bon, I cannot see that we would use more than these rolls over the next two or three years.  A full bolt will make eight walking gowns or five evening gowns if it is fine fabric for that purpose, and even those bolts which are partly used will yield a gown or two.”

“We should easily expect to buy you as much, to bring you out,” said Effie.  “And you will want some evening clothes and more adult day gowns for meeting the neighbourhood society, so I think it a wise decision, my dear.  We might see if there is anything in the workroom which also appeals to you.”

Francine frowned in thought.

“Only coloured satins under figured muslins,” she said.  “But I will be in mourning for six months in any case.”

“Your mother told us that you were to wear black only at her funeral, and were to go straight into half mourning,” said Anne.  “And I have made sure that everyone knows that. That embroidered muslin over a lilac under-gown will be a suitable evening gown, and we shall change the undergown when you are out of mourning, for a more fortuitous colour for you, like apricot, or jonquil.”

Tears welled up in Francine’s eyes.

“Oh, how I miss Maman!” she said.

“Of course you do, my dear,” said Effie.  “But she was far too practical to want you to be spoiling your good looks in black.”

 “I remember when we were first here, and Maman said that we should not mourn Papa, but celebrate that he was a good husband and father for the time that we had him, and that he was sat in heaven, laughing at the Jacobins when their own people turned on them, and they burned in hell,” said Francine.

“You remember things from an early age very well,” said Effie, soberly.

“It was rather memorable,” said Francine, who still refused to eat cabbage, hating the smell of the leaves, from having hidden in a cartful of the vegetables with her mother to escape Paris, when they could no longer hide with relatives.

It was ironic that they had scarcely escaped to England when the Jacobin regime had fallen; but they could not know at the time that they would have been safe, had they stayed with cousins just a little longer.

Francine wondered how her cousins had fared under Bonaparte.

Perhaps one day the war would be over, and she might re-acquaint herself with them.