arah entered Kennington and Jenner’s on Princes Street and was immediately grateful to be out of the cold. Her calloused hands were cracked and sore, the result of washing household linens the day before. Her hands were always bad in the winter. The cold made everything worse.
The shop was warm and inviting, a place she had always enjoyed spending time, fancying what she might buy if she only had the money. It was always brightly lit either by daylight streaming in through the windows that lined the front of the shop or from the large gas chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. Bolts of cloth in every conceivable colour were stacked on shelves, smaller samples of fabric arrayed across the counters.
The shop had been established by two draper’s assistants who had found themselves out of work following an unauthorised leave of absence to attend the races at Musselburgh. In opening their own store they had been determined to provide the ladies of Edinburgh with the finest silks and linens, previously only available in London. They had thus far been successful in their endeavours, having recently acquired the neighbouring premises to expand their textile emporium.
Sarah liked this story; ordinary people making their own way in the world. It gave her hope. Or at least it used to. Now Kennington and Jenner’s would always remind her of the last time she saw Rose Campbell, a young woman cut down in her prime, all her potential lost. It would make her think of the husk Rose had become even before she died: ground down by a life of servitude, a dead-eyed and depleted version of the girl whose confidence and energy Sarah once found intimidating.
She gazed at the fabrics that were, as always, elaborately displayed. Today yards of expensive material in a variety of vibrant hues had been pinned to a high point on one wall and allowed to cascade down onto one of the counters as though a flood had occurred. She used to daydream about the goods on offer in this place. Now they seemed an affront, and not merely because the limitations placed upon her meant she would never own such luxuries. They served to remind her that it wasn’t only those women below stairs who would never be permitted to realise their potential. Those above could aspire to no more than marriage and motherhood, and thus were encouraged to fuss over fripperies as they concerned themselves with how they might adorn themselves the better to please men.
Sarah would have turned and departed from the place if she could, its previous pleasant associations tarnished, but her time was not her own to command and she was obliged to go wherever she was sent. She had been despatched by Mina to collect a length of black velvet, ordered the week before, which was to be made into a cape to go with her new evening gown.
She proceeded towards the main counter, but as she approached it she became aware of a familiar smell, of citrus and sandalwood, though it was a fragrance that seemed incongruous here among women’s finery. This, she realised, was because she associated it with a man, and there indeed he stood at a sales counter, in conversation with the assistant.
Sarah loitered behind a pillar, reluctant to be seen and perhaps recognised. Beattie never struck her as the type to notice much about servants beyond the pair of hands that was handing him something, but having accompanied Mina so often, if he was going to remember any housemaid, it would be her. His attention was upon the counter, however, so she felt emboldened to peer around the pillar, which was close enough for her to overhear the exchange taking place.
Beattie was turning a pair of gloves over in his hands upon the counter top.
‘These are the very best that we have, sir. Kid, although we have silk and cotton too if you would prefer to see those.’
‘It has to be kid. Silk and cotton are a little vulgar, don’t you think?’
Sarah watched the assistant nodding in agreement, beaming pleasantly, flattered by Beattie’s easy charm.
She looked again at her own hands, turning from white to red in the warmth of the shop. She knew that she ought to be reassured by what she was witnessing. Buying expensive gifts was, after all, the way a man was expected to show his affection, and Mina would be delighted with such a token. Yet Sarah felt a persistent unease. On paper, when all was totted up, he seemed eminently suitable, but she couldn’t help thinking there was something beneath the veneer that was not as it appeared.
Whenever she raised her concerns about how sketchy their knowledge of him was, Mina was ready with excuses. Little could be known as to his background, as both his parents were dead. Beattie’s father had been a merchant, his unfortunate early demise much lamented. His mother hailed from just outside Edinburgh, on the Morningside. She was survived by her brother, one Charles Latimer, who still lived in the family home he had inherited in Canaan Lands. He was a frail man, more or less confined to his house these days, but it was furnished with large gardens and had views to the surrounding countryside which made it an agreeable confinement. ‘The uncle has a large hothouse,’ Mina had said, ‘wherein he grows exotic fruit and flowers. I have been promised orchids and pineapples.’
Such treasures, Sarah noted, had so far not been forthcoming.
Mr Latimer’s home sounded very much like Millbank, where Professor Syme lived, half an hour’s walk from Princes Street but far removed from the smoke and bustle of the city (and more significantly from his patients). It had extensive gardens and beautiful views towards Blackford Hill. Sarah knew this because Mrs Lyndsay had a relative who worked there.
Mrs Lyndsay often made comparisons between the regime at Millbank and that of Queen Street, trying to inculcate a sense of gratitude in Sarah about her place of work. She was conscious of Sarah’s restlessness and talk of wanting more than she had. To Mrs Lyndsay’s mind, this lack of appreciation was likely to provoke some form of divine intervention that would see Sarah much reduced in circumstances by way of punishment.
Sarah remained unconcerned about providential retribution, being more troubled by Mina’s mention of the debt currently being accrued by Beattie as he struggled to establish himself in medical practice in Edinburgh.
‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ Mina had said. ‘It is often how things are in the beginning. Dr Simpson himself owed a considerable sum of money at the time he married my sister.’
Perhaps, Sarah had thought, but Beattie is no Simpson.
Sarah watched him as the assistant wrapped his purchase. Oblivious of any onlooker, his gaze lingered upon the girl’s behind as she bent to retrieve paper and string from a drawer beneath the counter. Sarah had never seen him look at Mina that way, but it was Mina he was buying gloves for, so perhaps she should be assured that it was this way round.
When the assistant presented the bill, Beattie told her to add it to his account. He then picked up his package and made for the door with an unhurried gait, the smell of his cologne lingering long after his departure.