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.

Francine, or the Intrepid Emigrée chapter 1

Chapter 1

Francine wondered why the head preceptress had called her to her office.  She had not done anything of note which was likely to get her into trouble; or at least, nothing which the head was likely to know about.  Miss Phipps had already punished her for the satirical poem about Miss Luther, who lived up to her name in being puritanical and mean, and it must be too soon for the dancing master to discover, and complain about, the baby mouse she had introduced to his wig while her friend, Daphne Kempe, distracted him.

They were too old for such things, really, but M. Despard, who was a counterfeit Frenchman, had been most unfair to the new girl, Harriet Brightman, who could not help being clumsy after the coaching accident had killed her mama and half crippled her.  Francine did not like M. Despard, as she was a real French emigrée, and she despised his acting. She was usually in trouble for speaking to him exclusively in French, being told “You must learn the language of the country which has given you succour.”

Francine doubted that M. Despard, or whatever his real name was, knew as much English vocabulary or grammar as she did, having spent the greater part of her life in England.

She knocked, and was bade to enter.

“Ma’am?” asked Francine, with her best, innocent, poor little emigrée look.

“Miss DuChesne, Miss Cotton is here with some bad news for you,” said the head, with a sympathetic look, getting up and leaving the room.  Francine turned to see the small, neat, dark figure of Miss Cotton, who, together with her friend, Miss Tavistock, were her mother’s best customers, and who paid for her to come to school, so that her prospects might be better than those of a penniless emigrée.  Madame DuChesne had escaped the terror, her husband, Francine’s father, guillotined for the crime of being doctor to aristos, and Miss Cotton and Miss Tavistock had helped to set her up as a milliner, which trade enabled the DuChesnes to live well enough, especially with the local patronage. As two of the patrons besides Miss Cotton and Miss Tavistock were the Viscountess Rookwood and her wealthy friend, Mrs. Duval, the living was satisfactory, but they employed only one servant, and Mme DuChesne, whose health was indifferent, was wont to sigh for the days when they had six servants and a coachman.

Miss Cotton took Francine’s hands.

“My dear,” she said, pausing.

“It’s Maman, isn’t it?” said Francine.  “She is sick with the coughing again, no?”

Miss Cotton sighed.

“I ... there is no easy way to say this, Francine, the last coughing bout was too much for her heart.  Your maman died, and it was too quick for us to fetch you in time to say goodbye, though Effie, Miss Tavistock, had put on boots and purposed to ride cross country.”

“How good she is; how good both of you are,” said Francine, wondering why she was not crying.  “Did Miss Tavistock quote Horace?”

“Yes, ‘Eheu fugaces, Postumus, Postumus’.”

“It is appropriate,” said Francine.  Softly she added,

“Alas, friend, time, which passes by,

Brings stricken eld as the years fly.

The gods will never place a hold

Upon decay as we grow old.  Only Maman was not really old in years, only in body and spirit; but she said often that she longed to be with Papa.”

“How you and Effie make such clever free translations from Latin I do not know,” said Miss Cotton.

“But we are not as clever with our hands as you are, dear Miss Cotton,” said Francine.  “I should grieve.  Why am I not?”

“My poor child, you are shocked,” said Miss Cotton.

“I am wondering what I am to do,” said Francine.  “I suppose I should leave school and take up Maman’s job as milliner.”

“That would be a waste of us having educated you, unless you want to be a milliner,” said Miss Cotton.

“Oh!  No, I hate millinery.  But I am not sure I know enough to be a governess, though at least I could suppose to obtain a superior position for being French enough for it to bring cachet to my employer, and English enough not to contaminate my charges with any Frenchness.”

“Now that was snide.  But you do not have to be a governess, my dear, for Effie and I were of a mind to adopt you as our joint daughter; the house is in my name so officially it is I who would be your guardian, but we would like you to call us Aunt Effie and Aunt Anne.”

“I ... that is very generous of you, Miss ... Aunt Anne, I mean.”

“We have never married and so are not blessed with children, so we should be happy to have a daughter,” said Miss Cotton.  “We are not wealthy, but we are not poor, and we shall do our best to see you have as happy a life as you wish, whether that involves marriage, or studying, or what.”

“You are kind,” said Francine; and now she burst into tears.

Miss Cotton wrapped her arms around the child, and gave her a cuddle. Francine leaned in to the embrace, crying like a baby.  Then she pulled away.

“What of school?  Am I to stay here? Or go back with you?  Am I to return here after the funeral, or stay with you and ... and Aunt Effie?”

“I thought you might come away with me for now, and pay your last respects to your maman, and decide what you want to keep, and after the funeral, you can then decide what you wish to do,” said Miss Cotton.

“Thank you; you are very good,” said Francine.  “I will go now, and pack.”

Daphne was hanging about on the landing, waiting to hear why Francine had been called to the head’s office. Harriet was there too, holding herself up on the balustrade, her damaged leg dragging.

“What is it? You look as though you had a whipping! Surely he did not find the mouse yet?” whispered Daphne.

“Oh, Daphne, no, we are not in trouble, though I pray you if he finds out, blame me totally, for I will not be here to face the music.  My Maman has died, and I am going to clear out her things, and probably to live with my new adoptive aunts.  I think once I have buried her, I will not wish for the comforts of being a child at school any more.  Come and help me pack.”

“Oh Francie!  We will miss you,” said Daphne, as she and Harriet followed Francine to their dormitory room to pack her trunk. “I am so sorry about your mother, and I wish I could help.”

“Me too; you have been kind to me since I started here,” said Harriet.

“I will see if I can invite both of you to stay,” said Francine. “My dear aunts are the ladies who paid for me to come here.”

“Oh!” said Daphne. “The ones you think are a couple in Sapphic love?  I would never have known what to look for.”

“We who are French understand l’amour,” said Francine. “Moreover, love is love, and we do not judge in the same way many English do.”

“I do not understand,” said Harriet.

“Oh, it is just that they are like a married couple,” said Francine, shrugging in the Gallic way that no amount of rulers slapped across her errant shoulders had ever broken her of doing.  “Enfin, they enjoy themselves and are happy, so me, I say, who should say it is wrong?”

“Oh,” said Harriet. “I still don’t see how two ladies can be a married couple though; in the prayer book...”

“Ah, bah, they are like a married couple; I did not say they were married,” said Francine. “The prayer book does not take account of men loving men or women loving women. Me, I say it is nobody’s business.”

“I think that is wise, but I will not marry you,” said Daphne.

Francine managed a chuckle.

“Me, I like men, not women,” she said.  “I would like to meet one, one day.”

“What do you mean? Surely you have met men; there is M. Despard for one, and Dr. Granger, the dentist the school uses.”

“Yes, but I have yet to meet a real man,” said Francine. “Despard is a lying man-milliner, and the dentist is a foul monster. Bah! He is three hundred years old, he smells and he mumbles as if it was his mouth full of his foul tobacco-scented fingers not his victims’s.”

“You have a point,” conceded Daphne. “Will your aunts permit you to meet men, or will they want you to live as they do?”

“They are not idiots; they will introduce me to other young people, for they enjoy society,” said Francine.  “They are in demand at soirées and musicales, for they sing well.”

“Write to us?” asked Harriet.

“Most certainly,” said Francine.

Miss Euphemia Tavistock drew Francine into her arms for an unwonted embrace, before releasing her.  Miss Tavistock was a large-boned, tall woman, whose voice was surprisingly higher than that of her smaller companion.

“In your shoes, I’d want overnight to get used to the idea, and then go straight on to sorting out your mother’s things,” she said.  “But it’s how you feel.”

“Oh, Miss... er, Aunt Effie, I agree with you,” said Francine.  “I feel quite bruised by the news; is that a silly way to put it?”

“Not at all; sums up grief and a shock nicely,” said Miss Tavistock.  “I’ve a warm brick in your bed, for shock makes you cold, whatever the weather, and a nightrail wrapped round it to warm that too, and if you’d like to put yourself to bed, I’ll be up presently with a cup of chocolate, and some of Anne’s lemon meringue pie, for there’s nothing like sweet things when you are feeling low.  And if you have a sleep then, you shall have dinner on a tray, and I’ll read you Robinson Crusoe until you fall asleep.”

“You are all that is good,” said Francine, touched that Miss Tavistock even understood that being read to by a soothing voice, reading something familiar, would help. 

“You will be able to tackle your mother’s shop tomorrow, and I have asked dear Nell, Lady Rookwood, that is, and she has said that she will store any furniture we cannot store in our own little cottage, for the Priory is a rambling great place and has plenty of room.”

“Lady Rookwood is most kind,” murmured Francine.  Lady Rookwood had such a romantic story, for her courtship by the viscount had involved finding pirate treasure, no less! And she was a pretty lady, only a few years older than Francine, with merry eyes.  She was a good customer, too. “Perhaps she will also like to purchase at a cut price some of Maman’s stock.”

“More than likely,” said Miss Tavistock.  “Are you going to sell it all, or gift it to friends?”

Francine brightened.

“I can send Daphne and Harriet a new bonnet each,” she said.  “And some of the ready-made gowns, though I would like to keep the fabric which is not made up, for you and Aunt Anne and me to use. It is very silly that in England, someone called a Milliner not only makes millinery but also has to have simple gowns in stock, and stockings, and gloves. In France, Maman told me, such things are separate.”

“It would make sense, but that is the way it is; even in London, where you would think there would be more specialist shops,” said Miss Tavistock. “In a small place like Prior’s Eleigh, however, you could hardly expect anyone to specialise; indeed, your mother was as much a haberdasher as a milliner or mantua-maker. The village folk will miss her, but do not let any of them talk you into taking her place unless it is really what you want.”

“I shall not, Aunt Effie,” said Francine.  “I do not want to be a milliner, mantua-maker, parasol-seller or haberdasher, for I value my eyesight.”  She considered. “Should it be sold as a business, including the fabrics?”

“You could do so, if you so wished,” said Miss Tavistock.  “I know many people do so.”

“I do not even know who owns the shop, whether I have limited time to clear it, whether the owner will permit me to leave any stock there to sell to a new renter, whether it is a lease which may be sold, or what,” said Francine.

“Oh, as to that, there is no problem; Anne and I own the shop,” said Miss Tavistock.

“Oh!  But you will not want it to be unused.  I ... will you mind if I take some of the fabrics?  If you have any other person in mind to take on the business?” asked Francine.

“You take whatever you want, my love, and if you are generous enough to leave any as a basis for someone indigent who needs a hand up, then that is kindly of you, and if you prefer to take it all, then we will see to stocking as need be.”

“I would not be so unkind!” said Francine. “You gave us everything we needed to live.  But I should like some of the fabrics Maman made up for other people, like Lady Rookwood, and Mrs. Duval, and so on. I have envied them their beautiful fabric for their gowns. Maman would let me touch the fabric on the bolts, but such fabrics were too valuable to make up for me,” she added, wistfully.

“Then why don’t we all spend a couple of days going through the stock, and making inventories?” said Miss Tavistock.  “We have nobody in mind immediately, but Anne and I will be looking for some genteel lady who has fallen on hard times through no fault of her own, in order to give her a hand up.  A hand out is charity, which is hard, cold and grudging, whatever St Paul might say; there is always a difference between theory and practice.  A hand up is what you give to a neighbour, or someone who is about to become a neighbour.”

Francine nodded.

“I will remember that,” she said. “Your words are wise and thoughtful.  And a proud woman may accept a hand up, where a hand out would be an insult.”

“Exactly,” boomed Effie Tavistock. “Now to bed, little one.”

Francine was glad to cuddle down into goose feather down, with a hot brick at her feet, and a night rail, one of her mothers’, she thought, warmed by it, with good hot chocolate to sip, and Aunt Anne’s wonderful lemon meringue pie.

Maman would be the first to adjure her to rebuild her life, and move forward.  It was her mother’s watchword, courage! En avant!

Francine scrambled out of bed before lying down for a nap, to give thanks for Aunt Anne and Aunt Effie, and all their kindness.  Without them, she and her mother would have been lost, and it must have been a relief to her poor mother to know that her daughter would be cared for.  Poor Maman, she had struggled against the illness, but at least she was now free of pain. And with Papa.

Francine cried herself to sleep, but the sleep did her good, and she was ready to eat from a tray when Miss Tavistock brought one to her at dinner time, and then came to read her back to sleep, as though she were a mere child, instead of being almost eighteen years old.

Notice to readers

The proofs of Fantasia on a House Party and Armitage Chronicles [as well as Toll the Dead Man's Bells for those who follow Felicia and Robin] have arrived.  House Party will be taken down in two days, and Nessie within a week.
Thank you!
I am hoping to start posting the Rookwood sequel shortly, for which I need a title.  Possibly the Intrepid Emigrée