SERIAL Alfred’s Emporium

Cross Roads House didn’t entertain many visitors, so Rose was happy to see a friendly face . . .

DELIA BASSETT stared into her dressing mirror, a frown spoiling the otherwise flawless brow and her pretty mouth turned down.

Her birthday ball had been a triumph and the exuberance of it all had lasted for days. But that was a month ago.

Now the dress had been wrapped in scented muslin, the gifts had lost their novelty and she was feeling more miserable than ever.

Someone tapped softly at the door and a slender, graceful woman entered the room.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, taking a seat next to Delia. “The maid said you refused breakfast. Are you unwell?”

“No, Mama,” Delia answered with an exaggerated sigh.

“Then why won’t you come down?”

“It’s this,” Delia replied, flourishing a letter. “It came this morning from Augusta.”

Her mother took it and read aloud.

“The engagement is announced between Augusta Havers, daughter of Colonel and Mrs Havers of Datcherford, and Mr Simon Penshire.

“Aren’t you pleased for Augusta?”

“Delighted, Mama,” Delia answered testily. “Just as I

was to hear that Lydia is to marry Richard Graine. Both proposals were made at my birthday party!”

“They are your friends,” Mrs Bassett reminded her.

“And I am extremely fond of them, but they are engaged to be married, along with every other girl I know. What does that makes me? An old maid.”

“Don’t cry, my darling,” Mrs Bassett said. “You will make your nose red.”

“What does it matter? No-one wants me however I look.”

“Delia,” Mrs Bassett said, “there is no question of your being an old maid. You are just twenty.

“Also,” she added, “both those young men made overtures to you at one time. You rebuffed them.”

“Rightly so,” Delia agreed, peering in the mirror. “Richard Graine is so dry a character, just like his father. He will doubtless make an excellent banker, too. And Simon Penshire is so opinionated. Perhaps that is why he suits Augusta.”

“One day,” Mrs Bassett said, “the right man will come along for you, too. We must not give way to despondency. Besides, you have a call to make this morning.”

“Do I?” Delia looked surprised.

“Of course. You must call on Augusta with your congratulations. It will be expected. So dry your tears and tidy your hair.”

“I suppose I must, however I am feeling,” Delia agreed with a martyred air.

Mrs Bassett, relieved that the threatened tantrum had been averted, stood up.

“There is something you might do for me,” she said as she reached the door.

“The list of foodstuffs we require needs to be handed in at Hapstall’s shop and you will pass by on your way.”

“Very well, Mama,” Delia replied.

Alone, she tidied the coils of her hair and walked into her dressing closet to pick out a hat. Her low spirits had not gone away.

Whatever Mama said, there was no young man in Datcherford for her, she lamented, while trying one hat after another and throwing each to the floor in turn.

Who was there to notice what she wore? She and Augusta would drink tea with scarcely a word and then she would come home, encountering no-one else all day except Mrs Hapstall and Alfred Hapstall. Alfred Hapstall. Despite her mood, Delia could not help but smile, recalling their meeting at the dressmaker’s.

Since then she’d noticed Alfred each Sunday, escorting his mother to church. He’d tipped his hat to her, but they’d never spoken again.

He was very agreeable, she mused, and courteous. Clever, too, and handsome. Not that Delia would be interested, of course; she and Alfred moved in very different circles.

With more interest than previously, she picked the most flattering hat and studied her appearance in the long mirror.

Her mother was waiting as Delia descended the stairs.

“I’m ready, Mama,” she said. “Do you have the list?”

“Here it is,” Mrs Bassett answered, handing her a sheet of paper. “How much better you look now – back to your prettiest.”

“Yes, Mama.” Delia nodded. “I have decided to take your advice.”

“My advice?”

“I will not give way to despondency,” she assured her.

Mariah Hapstall hurriedly tied on her shop pinafore.

Alfred should have woken me, she thought anxiously. He was thoughtful to have insisted she take a rest in the afternoon, but she must have slept too soundly. It was past four o’clock.

She opened the door that separated their living quarters from the shop below and went down.

At the bottom of the staircase she stopped, unable to step any further because the shop floor was covered with a mass of crates and sacks.

“This is what must have roused me,” she muttered as she tried to pick a way through. “I see my son has been ordering more stock.”

“Yes, Mrs Hapstall,” a voice said from among the piles of goods.

“Tom,” she greeted him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Mr Alfred said to put away as much as I could,” Tom replied, pulling out a sack of flour. “But it defeats me where I am to find space.”

“I know. We’re almost full to the rafters as it is. What is that rope for?” she asked, pointing to a coil of hemp and a set of tools.

“Mr Alfred say he is going to rig up a pulley so that he can hang goods from the beams.”

Mariah gave a great sigh. “How will customers move about the shop? There’s scarcely room to place a foot already.”

“I can’t tell you, Mrs Hapstall,” Tom said, his face flushed from effort. “But you know what Mr Alfred always says.”

“Yes, I do. ‘The more items we sell, the more custom we will attract’.”

I wonder, Mariah thought, where my son’s ambitious nature comes from. His father had been content to make a modest living, and his grandfather before that.

“Well, Tom,” she said aloud, “I wonder what the folk of Datcherford will think when they see goods hanging above their heads.”

“They do come in greater numbers now,” Tom pointed out. “Mr Alfred says the shop is flourishing.”

Mariah could not deny it. Their shop had never been so busy. Yet she sensed a restlessness in Alfred.

Secretly, she wished her son would find a nice girl to marry. Surely a wife and family was the best way to make a man settle, and Alfred was a good catch for any Datcherford girl. He was diligent, amiable, and a smart-looking young man, too.

“Where is Alfred?” she asked.

“He’s gone to Cross Roads House to make a delivery,” Tom answered from behind a pile of crates.

“He said he would be away two hours or more and that I was to fetch you if we got busy.”

“Mrs Jameson is a good customer, but it’s a long way to Cross Roads House.”

“I asked Mr Alfred again if I might go instead,” Tom muttered. “I know I could drive the cart and horse if he gave me a chance, Mrs Hapstall.”

“And you will, Tom. One day.” She glanced at the wiry lad. “It is a big cart and Lissip can be obstinate, for all her age. Best leave it a while longer, I think.”

Tom was dragging the flour sack across the floor.

“Mr Alfred said to put the flour and oatmeal away from the door where it’s dry,” he explained. “And I’m to stack the treacle on the high shelf. Once that’s done, we shall have more space to move about.”

Before it could be accomplished, the sound of footsteps could be heard on the cobbles outside. Someone was pushing at the door and a face appeared at the glass.

“It’s Miss Bassett!” Mariah exclaimed.

Tom sprang up, clambered over the packages and pulled open the door to admit her.

“Good afternoon, miss,” Mariah said as Delia squeezed through the tiny gap. “I am sorry for the state of our shop. My son is increasing our stock and we’ve not yet had time to store it away.”

“Indeed,” Delia replied, brushing flour from her skirt. “Your establishment seems to be undergoing great changes. Is Mr Hapstall not here?”

“He’s out on a delivery. Can I help you?”

“I have this order for

Alfred was a good catch for any Datcherford girl

goods from my mama,” Delia replied, gripping the list in her gloved hand. “Will Mr Hapstall be a long time?”

“Two hours, I reckon,” Tom put in.

“Very well,” Delia said, handing over the paper reluctantly. “I will leave it with you, Mrs Hapstall. Good afternoon.”

Mariah signalled Tom to clear a path so that Delia could walk out safely.

She stepped over boxes to reach the counter and began to check the list.

“Here’s some space on the counter top, Tom,” she said, noticing a gap. “Could you stack the treacle here?”

“No, Mrs Hapstall. Mr Alfred said to leave that space for something special.” “Special?”

“Yes. It’s in this box.” Tom handed her a neat package.

Mariah, not recognising the name on the label, reached for scissors, cut it open and folded back the lining paper.

Her eyes widened as she picked out an item and held it up.

“Well, I never!” Tom exclaimed when he saw what was inside.

“Indeed,” Mariah agreed. “What is Alfred thinking of? We have never sold such a thing!”

The great clock in the hall of Cross Roads House was chiming a quarter to five as the two women ascended the curved stairway.

“Be sure to close the curtains fully, Bryson,” Mrs Jameson said over her shoulder. “A chink of sunlight disturbed my rest yesterday.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rose replied as they entered the large bedroom.

She turned down the silk counterpane, smoothed the pillows, then closed the heavy brocade curtains. As she left, she shut the door quietly behind her.

The house was still as Rose descended the stairs, tiptoed across the slate hallway and entered the kitchen.

“Away early today, isn’t she?” the cook hissed.

Rose nodded and went outside. An old fallen tree at the end of the garden was where she liked to sit and contemplate, away from the rooms she found so oppressive.

There was no joy in living at Cross Roads House; the place reflected its dour mistress.

Rose looked back at the building. While I have debts to pay, she thought, I can’t leave this friendless place.

She thought back to the day Mr Fell’s letter had arrived, asking her to marry him, with all the promises of wealth and comfort. She had stood in her room, clenching the letter tightly, as minutes ticked by.

She’d considered the wretchedness of her present existence, the months of poverty and isolation she might have to endure, and weighed all against being the wife of Mr Fell.

With that, she had taken his letter and torn it into shreds. She’d cast the pieces out of the window and watched them being carried away on the breeze.

“For what,” she’d whispered to herself, “could be more wretched than a loveless marriage?”

Suddenly there was a clatter of wheels and hooves on the path. The noise stopped, only to be replaced by firm footsteps.

Whoever is that, Rose thought in alarm. They mustn’t wake Mrs Jameson.

A young man appeared from around the corner. He was carrying a sack of flour and whistling loudly.

“Good afternoon,” he called cheerfully.

Rose waved frantically and put her finger to her lips.

“Please don’t make a noise,” she hissed. “My mistress is taking her afternoon rest and she’s a light sleeper.”

“What?” the young man whispered back. “Is it five o’clock already?”

“I see you know the ways of Cross Roads House.”

“I’ve a shop in Datcherford and I deliver goods here every month or so,” he replied. “I’m Alfred Hapstall. You must be the latest companion to Mrs Jameson.”

The young man did indeed know about Cross Roads House.

“I’m Rose Bryson,” she told him. “I’ll open the door for you. That sack looks very heavy.”

They entered the kitchen and Rose was pleased to find it empty.

“Will you take some refreshment, Mr Hapstall?” she asked, still careful to keep her voice low. “You’ve driven some distance.”

“Call me Alfred,” he said. “Yes, a cold drink, if you please. I’ll fetch the rest of the goods.”

Rose brought lemonade from the cold store while Alfred carried in more sacks and boxes, piling them on the kitchen table.

“Mrs Dee will return soon,” Rose said, hoping it would not be too soon. It was a pleasant change to have someone to talk to.

“She’ll want to look over what I’ve brought,” Alfred said, wearing a rueful expression. “Does she still bark at the maid?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rose confided. “She seems cross with everyone. Except Mr Biggins, of course.”

“Oh, yes, they have an understanding,” Alfred said.

“You seem to know a great deal about us. Have you been coming here a long time?”

“Ever since I was a boy, helping my late father,” Alfred explained. “I recall there was an understanding even then.”

“They seem an unlikely couple,” Rose ventured.

The door from the hall opened and Molly scurried through.

“Mrs Dee’s on her way,” she said to Alfred. “I hope nothing’s been forgotten, Mr Hapstall, because her mood is black today.”

Mrs Dee bustled in and proceeded to scrutinise the goods he had brought. Alfred winked at Rose, who stood looking as serious as she could manage.

When Mrs Dee was satisfied, she carefully counted out the payment.

“I shall require a receipt,” she said.

“As always, ma’am,” Alfred replied. “Miss Bryson, may I ask a favour? I have all these heavy baskets to carry back to the cart. If you would be so kind as to bring this one, I’ll manage it in one journey.”

Having effortlessly carried in the loaded baskets, Alfred made a great show of carrying out the empty ones. Rose duly followed him outside with the smallest.

“I cannot believe how heavy these empty baskets are,” she teased.

“I’m glad to see you smile properly, Rose,” he said as they reached the cart. “I think you haven’t done so for a while.”

Rose sighed. “You’re right. The days here pass slowly.”

“It’s a dull place,” Alfred agreed. “Mrs Jameson isn’t well liked so has few callers, and her only relatives are the Bassetts.

“What a shame you’ve no better company. I suppose the others are guarded in what they say for fear you’ll tell tales.”

“I’m afraid so. Except Molly, that is. She’s friendly and the opposite of discreet.

“But all this won’t be for ever,” Rose added with a determined smile.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Alfred replied. “Though I hope you’ll still be here when I call again, Rose.”

It occurred to Rose he might be flirting with her.

No, she thought, I’ve only just met him. He’s just what he appears to be – honest and open-hearted.

“I hope so, too, Alfred,” she said.

She watched as the cart rumbled along the drive and turned into the lane. It seemed to her the day had lightened.

“Alfred! Whatever were you thinking?” Mariah asked as soon as her son returned to the shop.

“What do you mean?” he replied, pulling off his coat.

“Silk stockings?” she went on, pointing to the pretty box nestling between jars of fish paste on one side and pickled walnuts on the other. “Hapstall’s has never sold such things!”

“Then it’s time we did, Mother,” Alfred replied, rearranging the cramped counter top to display the stockings more attractively.

“At one and sixpence a pair! Who will afford it?”

“There are still some in Datcherford with the means to buy them, Mother.”

“Alfred,” she persisted, “Datcherford folk buy sugar or soap and cabbages from us. Not silk stockings.”

“Wait and see,” Alfred told her. “I shall put a notice in our window. The more items we sell, the more custom we’ll attract.”

He looked around his shop, where each shelf was crammed with goods. Sacks and boxes were spilling on to the cobbles outside, despite the efforts of Tom to contain it all.

“If only we had more space.” He sighed. “The items we might stock.”

“Miss Bassett might be interested in silk stockings,” Mariah suggested. “She certainly has the means.”

“I suppose she does,” Alfred replied absently.

“She called with a list from the Manor House.”

“Really? I’ll offer two pairs for two and ninepence,” Alfred said, writing out a price card. “It might encourage customers to make a purchase.

“If I’m right, they won’t think of going anywhere else for their stockings in future.”

By the following afternoon, word had spread and almost all the stockings had been purchased.

Even Alfred was surprised. He was standing behind the counter, writing out a further order, when the shop bell rang and Delia entered.

“I am here again, Mrs Hapstall,” she announced, flourishing a slip of paper. “Mama is so forgetful. She omitted an item from our list. And here is Mr Alfred Hapstall! Good afternoon.”

Delia’s silk dress rustled as she weaved her way among the boxes and sacks to where Alfred stood.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bassett,” Alfred replied, looking up briefly from a column of figures.

It seemed his mother had been right – Delia was peering at the remaining pair of silk stockings. She looked up and saw him smiling.

“I have heard of your latest enterprise,” she said. “Whatever next? Will you be selling hats and gloves instead of apples or cheese? Perhaps Datcherford ladies will buy our apparel from Hapstall’s in the future.”

“Nothing would please me more, Miss Bassett.” Alfred smiled, folding the order and tucking it into a pocket. “All in good time.”

“Yes, indeed,” she answered with a coy glance that Alfred was too busy to notice.

“Can we help you with anything else, Miss Bassett?” he enquired hopefully.

He would not be impolite, but he was anxious to post the order in time for the evening collection.

“I think not,” she replied. “Our household is Mama’s concern. I should not know what to purchase even if our cupboards were bare.”

“I’m always here at your service,” Alfred replied courteously.

Delia inclined her head and wished them both good afternoon before leaving.

“That young lady is rather forward,” Mariah said when the door closed. “I’m not sure her mother would approve. Young people are raised differently nowadays.

“Speaking of young people, Tom asked again when he might drive the cart. It would save you the journey to Cross Roads House. He’s very eager.”

“I think even Tom’s enthusiasm would be tested if he had to drive through a winter’s storm as I’ve had to do in the past.” Alfred smiled. “Although I didn’t mind being out there today. Still, I wish . . .”

“You wish what?” she asked.

“I wish more people came to Datcherford to buy their goods.”

“Yes, I remember when I was a girl,” Mariah mused. “There was the crush of people on market days and the shouts of the hawkers. Folk used to ride and walk here from miles about.”

“They don’t any more,” Alfred pointed out. “There’s nothing to attract them. If only there was some way I could expand. We could prove Miss Bassett right and sell hats and gloves and all manner of things.”

“You mean give up the grocery business, Alfred?” Mrs Hapstall was shocked. “It’s been in our family for three generations.”

“No, I mean it to grow. I want people to have a reason to come here to shop. Imagine if they could find everything they needed under one roof.” Mariah looked aghast. “You don’t intend to move the store upstairs, do you? Where would we live?”

“Not here,” he said, putting his arms around her. “A place ten times as big as this. We wouldn’t live above the shop, but in a fine house where you can have a garden.”

“Oh, Alfred,” she said. “You and your dreams. Us in a fine house, indeed!”

“All in good time,” Alfred replied.

“Are you quite well, Delia?” Mrs Bassett asked from the couch. “You have been staring out into the garden for a quarter-hour.”

Mrs Bassett was concerned for her daughter. Delia was not normally given to long periods of contemplation. In fact, she was rarely able to finish a whole page of a book.

“You seem rather pensive, and you haven’t visited Augusta or Lydia recently.”

Could she be brooding because her friends were engaged and she was not?

If there was one matter Mrs Bassett was sure of, it was that her daughter was destined for a more advantageous match than the offspring of a retired colonel or banker’s son.

“Mama,” Delia asked, looking absently out of the window, “when you married Papa, how long did it take him to make his fortune? I mean, were you ever poor?”

“What an odd question,” Mrs Bassett remarked. “No, never poor. Your father’s family helped, and there was my dowry. We got along quite well.”

“But could one ever be happy and poor, do you think?”

“Another odd question,” Mrs Bassett replied, looking up from her book. “It depends, of course, on the degree of deprivation.”

Delia turned from the window and began sauntering about the room.

“I don’t think I should like to be poor,” she mused. “Do you think, Mama, if I married someone who was not rich, that Papa would help him to get on?”

Mrs Bassett’s expression did not change, but at the mention of marriage her every sense was alert.

“That would depend,” she answered carefully, “on his character and situation. And whether he was deserving of you. My darling, are you saying there is someone you care for?”

“I’m not sure I care for anyone,” Delia declared. “And even if I did, it does not mean I would accept him if he were to ask.”

Mrs Bassett forced herself to delay, turning another page in her book.

“Have I met him?” she asked lightly. “I thought I knew all of your friends.”

“You would not know him,” Delia replied, too quickly for her mother’s liking. “That is, if there were such a person.”

“But supposing there were. Would you be able to tell me who he is?”

“He’s . . . Oh, I don’t know,” Delia said, flopping into a chair and folding her arms. “I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

Mrs Bassett was too shrewd to let her frustration show. Conscious that they were the most important family in Datcherford, her one unfulfilled ambition was a fine marriage for her daughter.

If, as it seemed, Delia had found a suitor, she might have been pleased. But talk of poverty, added to her daughter’s evasiveness, was causing her concern.

There obviously was a young man involved, she decided. But why would Delia not tell her his name?

Despite the apparent calm, her mind raced through the families of all the county’s good society, but no name came to mind.

Delia never ventured out of Datcherford without her mother. She only went out to take her shopping list to Hapstall’s shop and . . .

Mrs Bassett’s hand gripped her book so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

Her mind could not accept the notion. There was that young man who had taken over the shop from his father. The one her silly housemaids giggled about.

Breathing deeply, willing herself calm, she turned another page of her book.

“Do you know, Delia,” she said, “I was thinking we might take a little holiday. You and I have had so little diversion since your party.”

“A holiday?” Delia replied. “You don’t mean to visit my aunt again, do you? I saw her last year.”

“You enjoy staying in the city,” Mrs Bassett insisted. “And you like to visit shops, don’t you? After all, the only shop in Datcherford is – what is it called, now?” “Hapstall’s.”

It was uttered in a whisper, and as she watched the expression on her daughter’s face, Mrs Bassett knew her suspicions were correct. A plan was forming in her mind.

“Do you remember we discussed going to Paris?”

“Paris?” Delia repeated, more animated now. “Papa always says he is too busy. Has he agreed at last?”

“Not yet. But I am sure that if I talk to him again he might agree.”

“It would be wonderful,” Delia acknowledged.

“Leave it to me,” Mrs Bassett said reassuringly.

She left the drawing-room unhurriedly, but once outside lost no time in reaching her room.

It was just as she’d suspected, she realised, pacing the floor in agitation. Delia’s inactivity had led to a ridiculous infatuation.

She stopped, recalling her daughter’s unusual silences and periods of brooding.

“I won’t allow it,” she hissed. “Have I spent years preparing my daughter for a fine future to see her throw herself away so?”

Mrs Bassett glanced about her. Everything she saw spoke of wealth and privilege accumulated over decades. She slumped on to a damask chair.

“Who knows better than me what awaits if Delia marries beneath her?”

The memories were never far away – the frustrations of marrying a man from a different background.

True, she loved William Bassett, but there had been times when she’d almost despaired of his uncultured ways.

He had a talent for business, but it was she who had equipped him to move in higher circles, and her connections that had opened doors.

Mr Bassett’s money had paid for a fine house and carriage, but Mrs Bassett’s breeding and refinement was the reason their servants treated them with respect and townspeople deferred to them.

She stood up and paced the room, stopping in front of the dressing mirror.

“I am not a cruel woman,” she whispered. “Mr Hapstall may be respectable, but if he is to become successful he has years of hardship ahead of him. How could Delia endure such privations?”

She began to pace the room. This had stemmed from boredom playing on Delia’s nature: she had to be removed from danger.

Mrs Bassett dismissed the idea of consulting her husband. He rarely refused his daughter anything. But Mrs Bassett needed an ally.

“Of course!” she cried, smiling. “My husband’s cousin. If she comes here, the two of us might stop this foolishness.”

She sat at her desk.

“I will write to Mrs Jameson immediately.”

To be continued.