SERIAL Alfred’s Emporium

Rose arrived at Cross Roads House to begin her new position, unsure of what the future held . . .

MIND the step, miss.” “Thank you,” Rose replied, taking the coachman’s arm and climbing down.

She watched him lift out her heavy trunk and place it on the grass verge.

“Are you sure this is where you want to be left?” he asked. “There’s neither house nor farm nearby.”

Rose looked at the acres of flat fields and hedgerows, all whitened by a late spring frost.

Save for some early returning birds, there was no living thing in sight.

“Yes,” she replied. “My employer said I’d be met here at one o’clock.”

“I don’t see anybody,” the coachman pointed out. “And it’s well past one.”

“Someone will come,” she answered, trying to suppress her growing unease.

“I hope so. Datcherford is nearly two miles away.”

“I’m going to Cross Roads House, not to Datcherford.”

“Mrs Jameson’s place? That’s two miles in the other direction. What will you do if no-one comes?” Rose had no idea.

Mrs Jameson’s instructions had been so precise, she thought. Could she have forgotten to send someone to meet her?

She might walk – two miles was no great distance – but she couldn’t drag her trunk so far.

The coachman was clearly reluctant to leave a young woman stranded, but time was passing and the post coach could not wait.

“Look!” Rose cried with relief. “Someone’s coming.”

A cart was turning into the lane some 50 yards from where they stood.

“I recognise the driver,” the coachman said. “He’s the groundsman at Cross Roads House. I’ll leave you then, miss. Good day.”

Rose stood back as the coach pulled away and the cart drew near. The driver, a slight man, peered at her.

“Are you the party named Bryson?” he asked curtly. “For Cross Roads House?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m Rose Bryson. I was afraid no-one was coming.”

“I has other things to do,” he muttered. “I suppose you want help with that trunk.”

“If you please,” Rose answered, too relieved to mind his rudeness. “You didn’t say your name.”

“Don’t please me when I has extra work,” was the sullen response. “My tasks won’t get done if I’m driving about fetching folk.”

With much huffing, he hoisted her trunk on to the cart, leaving Rose to pull herself up beside him.

She clung on as they

lurched forward.

“Biggins,” he said after a few yards.

“Thank you, Mr Biggins,” Rose said, determined to be courteous. “So you work for Mrs Jameson?” “Aye.”

“Does she have a family at Cross Roads House?” “No,” he replied.

“I’m coming as companion to Mrs Jameson,” Rose persisted. “I applied to her advertisement by post. She engaged me to start straightaway, so I suppose the last occupant left quite suddenly.”

“They all did,” he replied. “Six or seven these past three years.”

Biggins had a crafty look about him. Rose knew he wanted her to ask more, but she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. This news had affected her, though.

Have I made an awful mistake, she wondered.

She had never questioned why Mrs Jameson offered her the position even though she had no experience.

“Have you been at Cross Roads House long, Mr Biggins?” she enquired.

“Longer than anybody,” he replied. “I has privileges. Who else would do what I do, out in all weathers, miles from anywhere?”

“Is that it?” Rose asked. “No-one likes working at Cross Roads House because it’s isolated?”

“Datcherford is the nearest town,” he said sullenly. “A dull place.”

“Are there many visitors to Cross Roads House?”

“Mistress don’t encourage visitors.” He looked at Rose. “If you has a follower, he’d better keep his distance.”

“I haven’t,” she replied. “Does Mrs Biggins work at Cross Roads House?”

“There’s no Mrs Biggins,” he replied. “But I has an understanding with the cook.”

Biggins began to whistle and Rose decided to ask nothing more. But she wished he had not mentioned a follower.

That’s all behind me now, she tried to assure herself.

She had begun her journey before daybreak, and the strain of this day was taking its toll. Not even the pitching and rolling of the cart could prevent her eyes from closing.

“We’re here,” Biggins said, waking Rose with a jolt. “Cross Roads House.”

Rose looked up as they approached a driveway.

It was an old house, well maintained but plain, its high windows and chimneys built with such symmetry that it reminded Rose of a fortress.

Garden beds on either side were arranged for neatness rather than beauty, and rows of uniform trees marked the boundary.

Closer in, Rose saw broad stone steps, pristine white and leading up to a heavy oak door. It was closed.

“Will you set me here, please?” she asked Biggins. “I suppose there’s someone to help with my trunk?”

“Steady!” he admonished. “The front door’s not for servants. You ought to know that.”

Biggins was right. She was a servant now, and couldn’t set herself above the others. She had a great deal to learn.

And yet, if she’d chosen differently, she would be mistress of such a house. How easy it would have been. And how very wrong. “Tom, where are you?” Tom Liversedge clattered down the stairs into the kitchen to find his mother breathless from running. “What is it, Ma?”

“Go and wash your hands and face,” she told him, throwing off her shawl. “Then put on your Sunday coat and your cap.”

“But today is Tuesday,” Tom said.

“Do as I say, and be sharp about it.”

Tom obeyed and within a few minutes returned to the kitchen where she waited.

“You’re to go right away to Hapstall’s shop,” she said, pulling him this way and that to tidy his hair and straighten his clothes.

“I passed by and young Alfred Hapstall was putting a notice in the window. A smart boy is required. I expect they’ve been busy with only the two of them since Mr Hapstall senior passed away. Mrs Hapstall and her son will see you at ten o’clock.”

“But, Ma,” Tom argued, squirming to get away. “Am I not to be apprenticed as a stonemason alongside our John?”

“No, there’s not enough work in Datcherford.” She continued her attempts to flatten Tom’s unruly hair. “You’re fourteen and this is a good opening. I told Mrs Hapstall how clever you are with numbers.”

She stood back to look at the result of her efforts.

“That’ll do,” she said with a sigh. “Now, when you get there, remember to take off your cap.” “Yes, Ma.”

“Don’t speak unless you’re asked a question. Just listen to what you’re told. There are few jobs in Datcherford and other boys will be after this one.” “Yes, Ma.”

Tom was out of the door before she could fuss any more.

What a turn up, he thought as he walked briskly along the lane.

He was all set to be a stonemason and now he might be a shop boy. Still, if he had a job and brought home a wage, perhaps Ma wouldn’t treat him like a little lad or tell him what to do all the time.

Tom knew where to find Hapstall’s; everyone in Datcherford bought their foodstuffs there.

He turned the corner into the main street, quickening his pace as the town clock struck ten. But as he approached the shop with its newly painted sign, he stopped and stared.

A horse was tethered in front of the shop and a young man was loading baskets into the cart.

I hadn’t thought of that, he realised, bristling with excitement. If he got this job, he might be driving the horse and cart.

He almost ran to the door of the shop.

“Mr Hapstall?” he said. “Yes,” the man answered. “I’m Tom Liversedge, sir. I’ve come about the job.”

“I see,” Alfred Hapstall replied, looking at Tom keenly. “Come inside.”

Tom remembered to take off his cap as he entered. There were no customers, but the shop was crammed so full of goods he didn’t see Mrs Hapstall at first. She was behind the wooden counter, weighing sugar.

“This young man wants to be our assistant, Mother,” Alfred Hapstall told her.

She stopped and peered over the counter at Tom.

“Mrs Liversedge said she would send him. He looks tidy enough, but rather slight for the lifting.”

“I’m stronger than I look, ma’am,” Tom said quickly, his mother’s instructions forgotten. “I chop and carry all the wood at home and I help Ma fill the copper for the washing. I’m sure if you were to give me this job I could lift anything in the shop.

“Oh, and though I’ve never driven a horse and cart before, I’m sure I could master it,” he finished.

Alfred Hapstall folded his arms and studied Tom.

“You seem to have plenty to say, Master Liversedge. Suppose a customer wanted to make a pie and she bought apples at a penny three farthings, and a sack of flour at fourpence ha’penny, as well as a basket of potatoes at sevenpence ha’penny, how much would you charge?”

“One shilling and a penny three-farthings,” Tom replied promptly. “But would she not also need lard for the pie crust?”

Mrs Hapstall gave a little cough and Alfred tried to suppress a smile.

“You seem to have the predisposition to be a shopkeeper,” he said. “But you’re fourteen. A grown assistant would expect to be paid six shillings a week. I wonder what you are worth.”

“You could pay me

If Rose had chosen differently, she would be mistress of such a house

five shillings while I grow, sir,” Tom suggested, “and after a while I might be worth six shillings and sixpence.”

This time Alfred couldn’t stop the smile.

“Very well, Tom,” he said. “The job is yours. Come back tomorrow at seven o’clock.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be here!” Tom cried. “Thank you, Mr Hapstall.” He hurried to go.

“There is just one thing, Mr Hapstall,” he said as he reached the door. “How big do I have to be before I can drive the horse and cart?”

“Ask me in a year or two and we’ll see,” Alfred answered.

Tom closed the door behind him, jammed on his cap and set off down the main street, his head high.

Wait till Ma hears, he thought.

He was a man now; he’d be bringing home a wage. What’s more, in a year or so he’d be driving the horse and cart.

“At nineteen you are very young for this position, and your lack of experience will create difficulties for me. I am prepared to make some allowances, but my standards are high.” “Yes, Mrs Jameson.” Rose was standing before her new mistress in the morning room. She was aware of being dishevelled from the journey, having scarcely had time to take off her coat and hat before being summoned.

Mrs Jameson’s piercing gaze had already picked out the mud on Rose’s boots and her crumpled clothes.

“I expect your appearance to be neat. I rarely go out, but when you accompany me your attire must be appropriate to the occasion.

“You will find in your room two frocks, one black and one grey. The housemaid, Baines, is a competent needlewoman; she can make any necessary adjustments.”

“Thank you, Mrs Jameson, I am most obliged.”

“The cost of the frocks will be deducted from your wages. That is all. Return at three minutes to five. That is when I take my afternoon rest.” With that, Mrs Jameson turned away and picked up a book.

Rose left, taking care to close the door quietly behind her.

There had been six or seven others before her, she recalled. Little wonder.

Rose wearily climbed three flights of stairs to the small chamber she’d been allocated.

It contained a bed, table and chair and a closet. Clearly the luxuries of Cross Roads House were confined to the rooms Mrs Jameson occupied.

I won’t be downhearted, she determined. She had somewhere to live and the wages were more than she’d received previously. If she was careful with them she’d be free in year or two.

Exhausted, she lay on the hard bed. Could this year be any more difficult than the last? Was that really herself she remembered fourteen months ago – a carefree girl, home from boarding school?

She smiled, remembering the day her father had met her.

“You’ll like our new home, Rose,” he had said in his cheerful manner. “It’s a shame it has no garden, but it’ll be so much easier to keep than the old place.”

The old place had been a draughty rented cottage, and the place before that a dingy house at the top of a dozen steps. Later, Rose would learn why each new lodging had had to be cheaper than the one before.

“I’ve received a new commission,” her father went on excitedly. “And once I’ve been paid, you and I will travel. Wouldn’t you like that, Rose?”

She’d agreed enthusiastically because she believed in him, unaware of how dire their circumstances really were.

Now, a tear escaped as Rose recalled her father’s sudden illness and passing.

She’d been obliged to search through his papers and, among the jumble of sketches and old letters, she’d discovered an unpaid bill. Then another, and another.

He’d meant to pay, she was certain, but money had always fallen through his hands like water.

If her mother had lived, she might have been a steadying hand. It was only due to her foresight that money had been set aside for Rose’s education. But the income from her father’s paintings had never matched his spending.

Rose had scarcely had time to mourn him before the creditors came knocking. Worst of all, rent was owed and she’d gone to appeal to the landlord for more time.

Mr Fell was a tall, plainly dressed man whose sober bearing made him appear older than his thirty years.

Even now, Rose gave a little shiver at the memory of their first meeting and of his cold handshake.

“I have no money, Mr Fell,” she told him as they sat in his office. “I only recently completed my schooling. If you allow me time, I will work and return your money by instalments.

“I know it’s your right to evict me from the lodgings, but if you do, I’ll have nowhere to go,” she added.

Mr Fell listened in silence, his cold, stern gaze making her fear the worst.

“Your intention to discharge your father’s debts is commendable,” he answered. “I recommend you take cheaper lodgings.

“There is nearby a boarding house for single women, run by a lady of impeccable character. Also, I know of a vacancy for a junior teacher. Your education qualifies you for the post.”

Rose remembered the wave of relief she’d felt. Mr Fell, who might have made her homeless, had shown her a way ahead.

“These are practical solutions,” he said, brushing aside her thanks.

The teaching post had not been well paid. She’d had to darn her stockings and blacken her shoes to disguise the worn-out leather, and though the lodgings were inexpensive, the meals were frugal.

But with careful economy she’d managed to pay Mr Fell a monthly instalment and took consolation in retrieving her father’s good name.

Then the day had finally arrived when Rose was able to take the last instalment to Mr Fell’s office. As usual he’d been coldly polite.

“So the first of your father’s debts is paid, Miss Bryson,” he remarked as he wrote the receipt.

“Yes,” she replied, anxious to leave. “I hope to clear the rest in a year. Fortunately, my other creditors are prepared to wait.”

There had been something in his expression then, Rose remembered, a mere flicker of the eyes. She realised the truth.

“Mr Fell,” she began in astonishment, “have you intervened on my behalf?”

“I must add astuteness to your other qualities, Miss Bryson,” he replied. “Yes, I have standing among the business community and your other creditors sought my opinion. I told them I felt sure you would honour your promises.

“But now,” he continued, “you may cease to think of me as your creditor. You have fulfilled your promise and I have received excellent reports of your conduct at the school. Reputation is everything, Miss Bryson.”

He straightened his neckcloth.

“My own name is well respected. I am a man of wealth and property and have recently acquired a substantial dwelling-house.

“I lack nothing but a life companion, though I had despaired of finding anyone suitable. Until now.

“And so, Miss Bryson, I ask you to be my wife.”

“It is a secret. Neither of you must breathe a word of what you are about to see.”

Miss Delia Bassett spoke over her shoulder

to the two young ladies following. The trio were walking down the cobbled main street of Datcherford as quickly as decorum allowed.

“Remember, Lydia, and you, Augusta, not a word to anyone.”

“Honestly, Delia, it’s only a dress we’re going to look at,” Augusta said.

“It is not only a dress! It is an exquisite evening gown and no-one must have an inkling about it before I make a grand appearance at my party.”

“I wonder you didn’t have your dress made in the city, Delia,” Lydia said with a meaningful glance at Augusta.

“Indeed,” Miss Bassett replied. “But Mama says she has not the time to take me for fittings and I could not go unchaperoned. But what a find is Mrs Maloney!

“One would never think it from the appearance of her establishment, but her skill is unsurpassed. “Here, we have arrived.” Before them was a little cottage, squeezed between a grocer’s and a bakery.

The door opened; clearly someone had been looking out for them.

“Good morning, ladies,” a neat little woman said from the tiny hallway.

“Good morning, Mrs Maloney,” Delia greeted her. “I have brought my friends. They are desperate to take a look at my new gown, but they have both been sworn to secrecy.”

The other girls looked at each other in exasperation.

“Of course, Miss Bassett,” Mrs Maloney replied. “Will you all step this way?”

They followed the dressmaker into a room that comprised almost the whole floor of the cottage.

While they seated themselves on mismatched chairs, Mrs Maloney pulled forward a wooden frame covered in a white cloth.

“It is almost complete, Miss Bassett,” she said quietly. “If you will try it on, I can make any necessary adjustments.”

She swept away the white cloth to display the gown below. The girls gasped their admiration.

Fashioned from the palest blue silk and its folds shimmering in the light, the garment was a feat of understated elegance.

“Don’t you think it needs a little beading around the neckline?” Lydia suggested.

“No,” Mrs Maloney said firmly.

“Look at the tiny stitches!” Delia cried. “You are an artist, Mrs Maloney. How did you find thread to match so well?”

“The stitches are the work of my daughter, Winifred,” she informed her. “She is still training, but I allowed her to work on this. As for the thread, you may thank Hapstall’s for that.”

“You mean the grocer’s shop next door? Surely not. That is where Mama orders our provisions.”

“There have been changes since young Alfred took over the shop,” Mrs Maloney returned. “It seems there’s nothing he cannot obtain.”

“Perhaps we should call in on our way home,” Lydia suggested, feeling quite bored. “There may be other treasures amongst the soap and cabbages.”

“Enterprise should not be mocked,” Augusta admonished her.

“I want to try on my gown,” Delia declared.

Mrs Maloney smiled and indicated a private room. Carrying the gown carefully, she followed Delia inside.

While they waited, Lydia amused herself by sifting through a box of beads, but Augusta’s face showed that she thought an afternoon spent looking at a dress was a waste of time.

Both girls turned with a start as the door opened and a man strode in, his face obscured by the basket of logs he was carrying.

“Here’s your wood, Mrs Maloney,” he called. “Shall I carry it up to your kitchen as usual?”

When there was no reply, he put down the basket.

At that moment, Miss Bassett stepped out of the fitting-room, wearing the gown.

“I beg your pardon, ladies,” the man said. “I didn’t know there was anyone else here.”

“That is all right, Mr . . .?” Delia began.

“Hapstall, miss. Alfred Hapstall.”

“Now you, too, know the secret of my new gown, Mr Hapstall,” she went on. “I hope I can rely on your discretion.”

“Absolutely, miss,” Alfred replied. “And may I say that is a wonderful dress? I’ve never seen the like.”

“Do you think it needs some beading about the neck?” Delia asked rather daringly.

Lydia giggled but Augusta appeared quite shocked.

Alfred surveyed the gown for a few moments.

“No, miss,” he replied. “True elegance requires no embellishment.”

“You display good taste, Mr Hapstall,” Delia replied, enjoying the moment.

“Perhaps you might leave the wood there, Alfred,” Mrs Maloney intervened with timely tact. “Carry it up later if you have time.”

“I will,” Alfred said. “Good afternoon to you all, ladies.”

“So that is the man who brought silk thread to Datcherford,” Delia said when the door had closed.

She stood before the mirror, turning this way and that, watching the folds of the gown flow around her.

“I think it is perfect, Mrs Maloney. Will you have it brought to the house? Your account can be sent to my father, of course.”

Delia’s companions waited while she changed into her walking dress and the three left together. Alfred was standing in front of his shop as they passed and he nodded to them.

“He is not what I would imagine a shopkeeper to be,” Delia remarked when they were out of earshot. “How very gallant to tell me I had true elegance.”

“I think he was referring to the gown,” Augusta muttered, but Delia did not hear.

“Good morning,” Rose said as she entered the kitchen of Cross Roads House. It was her second week of employment.

Only Molly, the young scullery maid, smiled to see her. The other servants murmured a good morning, but their conversation quickly died down.

It had been so since Rose’s first day, when she’d gone downstairs for breakfast. Mrs Dee, the cook, had been particularly unwelcoming.

“We weren’t expecting you, Miss Bryson,” she’d said. “It’s customary for the lady’s companion to take breakfast in her room. Molly here can bring it to you.”

“I would rather have my meals here,” Rose insisted. “If you don’t mind.”

From Mrs Dee’s expression she clearly did mind, but nevertheless Rose sat down at the table where oatmeal, bread and tea were laid. There was also a used bowl and cup.

“Where is Mr Biggins?” Rose asked in a friendly manner. “Has he breakfasted already?”

In the awkward silence that followed, the other servants looked to Mrs Dee to reply.

“Biggins is ground staff,” she said, fixing a withering stare on Rose. “He has to take his meals in the outhouse. We wouldn’t want anyone telling Mrs Jameson we broke her rules.”

Finally Rose understood. They thought she had Mrs Jameson’s confidence and were worried she might tell tales.

“Of course not,” she declared. “I’m sure they are followed exactly.”

Today, Rose had darning to finish before she began work so she ate her breakfast quickly and left.

Molly followed her to the stairs.

“I’ve something for you, Miss Bryson,” she whispered, handing her a letter. “I reckoned you wouldn’t want Mrs Jameson to see it.”

“Why would she see it?” “All the letters are supposed to go to her first. She likes to know who is getting post. But when the delivery arrives we look through it before the mistress sees it. Are you all right, miss?”

Rose was staring at the envelope, her heart

pounding. She recognised Mr Fell’s handwriting.

“Yes, thank you, Molly,” she muttered and hurried to her room.

She threw the letter on to the table, resolving never to open it, but already unwelcome memories were flooding back of that awful occasion when Mr Fell had offered her marriage.

Young and inexperienced as she was, Rose had been too shocked to speak.

“My proposal has perhaps surprised you, Miss Bryson,” he said. “You will need a moment to consider. It is an important undertaking.”

“Mr Fell,” she forced herself to reply. “I know nothing of your interests nor your disposition. And you know nothing of me. How can you consider me a suitable wife?”

“By those qualities you display,” he said. “Your honesty, integrity and sobriety. As for myself, I have little time for interests other than my business. But I trust there is nothing objectionable in my nature.

“I am even-tempered; I dislike to become angry, preferring to remain in control of my emotions. We have that in common, Miss Bryson. I have observed and admired your self-mastery.”

“Mr Fell, I am not as you think,” Rose declared. “Circumstances have forced me to live quietly, but I have known joy and frivolity, and when my debts are paid, I will find them again. There is the reason we are unsuited.”

“Naturally, as my wife, all your debts would be settled by me,” he said, ignoring all other objections.

“Mr Fell,” she argued, “this cannot be. What tastes have we in common? Where is the affection? These things are the cornerstones of marriage.”

To Rose’s dismay, instead of being discouraged, Mr Fell went on.

“Do not be swayed by whimsical notions, Miss Bryson. You are alone and in debt. The past year must have been a hard lesson on the evils of poverty for you. I offer you a life of ease and plenty.”

Overwhelmed, Rose followed her instinct and fled without another word. But Mr Fell wasn’t put off.

Although she refused to see him when he called at her lodgings, and returned his letters unopened, it was impossible to avoid him.

They often passed by in the street and he would linger after church service in the hope of speaking to her.

But Rose always hurried away, sensing his eyes following her. When she could bear it no longer, she answered Mrs Jameson’s advertisement and, on receiving her offer, left the town.

It will not do, she thought. I must read the letter.

She opened it with trembling hands.

Miss Bryson, it began.

I fear your departure was connected to my proposal of marriage. If I have given offence, I apologise. It was never my intention to cause distress. I saw no harm in seeking a companion for myself and it is my belief that we would do well in a marriage of mutual benefit. I ask you to reconsider my offer. However, if you do not reply, I will deem the matter closed.

With my respect, G. Fell.

Have I been too harsh in my judgement of him, Rose wondered.

He was an honest man, self-aware and consistent. A short note from her – that was all it would take to be free of this awful house, to be no longer in debt.

If she accepted him, she would want for nothing. She wouldn’t be alone any more, though he would never love her, nor she him.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Mr Fell’s hand placing a wedding ring on her finger and leading her to his grand house.

What should I do, she wondered.

To be continued.