Flora walked back towards Queen Street station at a clip. The train was leaving shortly and she’d overstayed her trip. Her appointment at Collinson’s had taken far longer than she had expected, for one thing. She’d spent two hours in the chair in the end, as Janice, the hairdresser, had cut, shaped and permed her hair into something not just acceptable, but modish; that was the word the other ladies had used as they watched what started out as a mercy mission become something altogether more exciting.
The silence in the room had quickly been replaced with a buzz of interest that grew into chatter as Janice had dramatically swept Flora’s hair into a deep side parting, pulled back high along the hairline but shaped into soft waves at the sides and back; the hairdresser had spent an inordinate amount of time styling the hair to fall in a sinuous curve along Flora’s right cheek, almost touching her eyelashes, and there had been a collective gasp as Janice had finally ‘revealed’ the finished look.
‘She looks like a dark Carole Lombard!’ someone had cried and the other women had agreed, a couple of them even clapping in appreciation. Flora hadn’t known where to look when Janice had refused payment, saying simply that she had felt an obligation to ‘restore some balance’ to Flora’s looks after her ‘sacrifice’.
All the way back along Miller and Cochrane Streets, people stared at her even as they strode past at pace, but she didn’t feel as alien as she had before. She had a sensation of settling into the landscape, like a fresh puddle slowly seeping into the ground and becoming a part of it. The city didn’t terrify her as she had thought it might. There was something to see at every level – shoe-shiners on the streets, office workers moving behind glass windows, pigeons roosting on chimney pots on high roofs set several storeys off the ground. Scale, density, style – all of it was grander here.
‘Roll up! Roll up! Read all about it!’ a news-seller called out. He was standing by his cart outside the station and Flora glanced over as she started up the steps. He was waving a rolled-up copy of the Scotsman in his hand but she could clearly see the headline in thick black print: LAIRD’S FACTOR DEAD ON ST KILDA!
She stopped abruptly, feeling the earth shift beneath her feet so that she jolted forward a little as she read the words. Her heart began to pound in her chest, but she had forgotten to breathe. She felt caught between two worlds.
In a daze, she walked over to the cart, picking up the paper on top and scanning the words with a look of disbelief.
‘Hey, lassie! Are you buying or not?’ the news-seller snapped, snatching it from her hands.
Flora looked at him, then around her nervously, as if people could somehow see her connection with the drama. But no one broke stride; they all had busy lives, and she was just a pretty stranger in poor clothes.
She reached a hand to her pocket to fish out a penny to buy a copy, the news-seller putting out his hand in eager readiness – but she stopped again. If Frank Mathieson hadn’t been worth spending a penny on in life, she wouldn’t do it now in death. She would never forgive him the glee with which he had ripped James away from her that day in Glen Bay; it had been the beginning of her end.
She felt the past stir, a turning over deep within her, and she looked at the man with sudden intensity. ‘Where’s Blythswood Square, please?’ she asked him instead.
‘. . . What?’ The man watched as her hand – and the penny – was returned to her pocket.
‘Blythswood Square. How would I get there?’ Suddenly she felt the city’s unwieldy sprawl and her own insignificance. All these hundreds, thousands of people . . . she felt as small as a pebble on the beach back home. She stared up at the high roofs, her eye travelling over entire blocks of them. Somewhere, amid all these buildings, sat a townhouse like any other, save for the fact that it had once housed him.
This had been his world, his home, and – like Sophia Rushton before her – she wanted to see it.
The man, giving up on any hope of his penny, frowned at her from beneath his cap, seeing her evident bewilderment. ‘. . . Blythswood, you say?’
‘Aye, sir.’
He took in the mismatch of her fashionable hair and lumpen clothes; she looked a woman of two halves, and he was quiet a moment, as if confused why someone like her should need to go there; but finally he turned and pointed the newspaper in the direction of the long street running away from them. ‘Go a half mile . . .’
She walked until she found herself in a grand square with a lush green oasis sitting at its centre. The townhouses flanking the streets were glorious and dazzling, the square an homage to symmetry as one side perfectly mirrored its opposite in identical rows of classical architecture: tall windows that spoke of high-ceilinged rooms, ornate plasterwork and bag chandeliers that could be seen through the glass.
There was no way of knowing which house had been his, no way to tell them apart. All the glossy black front doors were double-sized and sat atop flights of stone steps with curved iron handrails. James had tried to describe it to her in one of his letters, detailing airy salons and elliptical staircases, but these words had meant nothing to someone who had grown up in a two-room stone cottage. Now, though, she saw what he had wanted to give her, the life they would have lived.
It was as if a silk veil had been hung over the streets and draped over the trees, for the noise of the city was muted so that she could hear birds singing; a dog was being walked on a lead over the grass. The natural world had a presence again amid the bricks and sandstone and concrete, and the air itself seemed rarefied in this closeted space. Even the people walking along the pavements moved differently, languid and elegant in their hats and gloves.
She crossed the road to the communal garden and peered between the bushes: people were sitting on benches with their faces turned to the sun, children playing games on the grass, their hard-edged shadows chasing them on the ground. These were leisured lives playing out before her, a social elite with concerns no more pressing than choosing which wine to drink at dinner that night. She knew for certain that not a single one of them had ever wrung a bird’s neck or plucked a sheep – or probably even knitted a sock – as she stood by a tree, her fingers absently running over the rippled bark while she felt the slow, faint pulse of their lives here.
A family was emerging from a house on the other side of the square, a little girl in a yellow dress and white socks skipping carelessly down the steps; she made to sprint towards the square but her father caught her by the shoulder, as if in anticipation of her break. He bent to say something, perhaps to scold her, but Flora’s view was obscured by two young women walking on the path in front of her and her attention fell onto them instead. Other lives to follow. They were wearing matching coats and hats – like uniforms – and talking in soft voices, pushing sleeping babies in prams.
Not quite asleep. One of the babies mewled, a tiny pink fist sweeping above the coverlet, and Flora gasped as if it had been a sabre swipe – memories surfacing, unbidden – but the young women were oblivious to her presence, six feet away in the shadows.
She moved away, still too fragile for such encounters, and her tears fell freely again at the thought of what would never be. She would never become the mother on the steps in a pretty dress, her handsome husband by her side; their son would never play on this grass . . . Like Mhairi, she had been damned, abandoned by a God she had defied. Donald had offered to forward their address once they settled in Oban but Lorna had advised against it – picking at scabs only delays healing, she had cautioned.
She walked back to the main street, trying to outpace dreams that would not die. She turned back towards the noise and the smuts, returning to where she belonged. She had to face up to it – James and their son were gone, and they were never coming back. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner her own life would go on. She had to find a way ahead without them, somehow.
She had to be brave.
She saw a shop sign up ahead of her as she walked –
. . . She had to be brave.
Flora pushed open the door, almost falling into the shop. A bald, bearded man was standing behind a counter talking with another customer. He glanced up uninterestedly at her arrival. He wore a black suit, like a mourner, and looked incongruously sombre in his surroundings. Everything around him seemed to glitter: under the glass cabinet were rows of timepieces and fob watches, brooches, bracelets and even a few small crowns; behind him were gilded mirrors, china vases and figurines, silver candlesticks, gilt-framed paintings; ornate crystal chandeliers hung on hooks from the ceiling . . . Flora had never seen so many things before, most of them entirely decorative and superfluous to need.
She hesitated where she stood on the door mat, not sure what to do next.
As if reading her expression, the pawnbroker murmured something to his other customer, who discreetly turned away and began to peruse the contents of one of the wall cabinets.
‘Good afternoon,’ the pawnbroker said flatly, bringing his attention to bear upon Flora instead. ‘How can I help you?’
She hesitated, flicking her finger against her skirt nervously. ‘I have something I . . . I wish to sell.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place.’ The man stared at her with dull eyes, unaffected by her beauty and seeming not to care that her hairstyle belonged on a far better dressed woman. ‘What is it you’ve got?’
She hesitated for a moment, then strode towards the counter, pulling the ring off her finger with a feeling of release.
‘This.’ She set it down roughly on the glass surface, refusing to look at it. Her emotions were running high and she felt flushed with adrenaline. She just had to do this and be done with it. Be brave.
The man’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it and he looked back at her with more interest. ‘This is yours?’
‘Aye,’ she nodded, still not looking at it.
‘You’re certain?’
She frowned, a flash of indignation coursing through her. ‘Of course I am . . . What are you suggesting?’
Her irritation seemed to reassure him because he gave a nod and picked it up, reaching for a small glass beside him. Flora watched as he settled the glass against his right eye, squinting hard as he held up the ring and began to examine it fully. For several minutes, he didn’t pass a single comment as he looked at the setting, the stones, the band.
When he finally looked back at her, his eyes were hard.
‘This is eighteen-carat gold with three premium-grade sapphires,’ he said, openly looking her up and down for a closer inspection of her clothes, her incongruous hair. ‘How did you come by it?’
‘My fiancé proposed with it.’
‘Your fiancé?’
The slur wasn’t missed by her. ‘Correct.’
‘And now you’re selling it?’
‘Haven’t you ever heard of a broken engagement?’ she asked tartly. She didn’t want this stranger’s pity. And besides, her business was none of his.
‘. . . It’s good quality.’
Too good for her? She shrugged. ‘Aye. He’s rich.’ Was.
He put his hands on the glass counter and gave a weary sigh. ‘Look, lassie, this is a reputable establishment. The hoity-toity around here know they can trust me not to sell on indiscriminately. You wouldn’t be the first maid to come in here after pilfering from the mistress.’
Flora felt a flash of anger. ‘I am no one’s maid!’
She heard a sound almost like laughter, but it hadn’t come from the pawnbroker and she glanced across to see the other customer struggling – and failing – to hide his amusement.
‘Excuse me?’ Flora asked. ‘This is a private conversation.’
‘Apologies,’ the man said, tipping his hat. ‘I really wasn’t trying to listen in. It just . . . it just tickled me, that’s all.’
Flora’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tickled you?’
He smiled at her, brown eyes crinkling beneath the rim of a hat; smooth-shaven, a wristwatch flashing at his cuff. ‘That you were offended by being mistaken for a maid and not for a thief.’
‘I’m neither.’ She looked back at the pawnbroker. ‘You hear? Neither.’
‘No? Prove this is yours, then.’
‘And how am I to do that?’
He shrugged. ‘Have you a receipt?’
‘Of course not. He proposed to me. He didn’t buy me at auction.’
There came another laugh again that attempted to conceal itself as a cough, but this time she didn’t look over; she was locked in a stare-down with the pawnbroker, who seemed completely unmoved by her indignation. Back home, her temper had been considered ‘fearsome’; not so much in this big city, it appeared.
A thought struck her.
‘I know!’ she said, eyes widening. ‘Here – is that proof enough for you?’ she asked, holding up her hand so he could see her ring finger and the deep tan line. ‘Would I have that if I had just now stolen it from the mistress? Well, would I? I’ve been wearing that ring day and night for a year.’
The pawnbroker happily conceded the point without further argument, drawing in a deep, slow breath as he considered his next move. ‘Very well, then. I’ll give you £2 18s 10d for it.’
Flora blinked, wrong-footed to have suddenly got what she’d come for. It was almost three times what she’d got for her hair.
‘Right,’ she said, still keeping her chin high and trying not to show her fluster. ‘Well, then, that’s good, thank—’
‘Hey, hey, hey, not so fast!’
Both Flora and the pawnbroker turned in surprise as the loitering customer came rushing over. ‘Surely you’re not going to accept that offer?’ the man asked her, with an incredulous look.
‘What?’
He looked across at the owner. ‘Dougie, even by your standards, that offer is insultingly low. It’s an eighteen-carat-gold triple-sapphire ring, you just said it yourself.’
‘Aye,’ Dougie replied, looking displeased. ‘And that’s my offer.’
The man looked back at Flora with a disarmingly friendly smile. ‘Miss, would I be correct in assuming that this is your first time in an establishment such as this?’
Flora stared at him through narrowed eyes, not quite sure what was going on. Why was this man getting involved? ‘. . . Aye.’
‘I thought as much, as did my friend here. But you should know that there is a way business is conducted in these matters. You see, it’s almost like a dance.’
‘A dance?’
‘Yes. Dougie makes you an initial offer. You laugh, refuse and state what you were looking for . . . He then laughs, before offering you a little more than originally . . . You laugh again, saying you won’t settle for less than X . . .’ He smiled. ‘. . . You see the pattern?’
‘Aye,’ she said warily.
‘What usually happens is you end up with a number roughly in the middle of what you both wanted. But you certainly never, never accept the first pass. I mean, with a ring of this calibre, of course you wouldn’t dream of accepting a penny less than six pounds.’
‘Of course not,’ she said quietly, even though she had no idea of the ring’s value, but in his fashionable-waisted suit and trilby, this man looked as if he might; he looked rich, to her eye. ‘Thank you for the advice.’
She looked back at the pawnbroker. ‘I was looking for six pounds,’ she said calmly, even though her heart was thudding so loudly, she was sure they must both be able to hear it.
She sensed the stranger grinning beside her, standing now with his ankles crossed and an elbow on the glass as he openly settled in to watch the negotiation.
Dougie’s jaw pulsed but he didn’t smile. In fact, he looked decidedly unamused. ‘No chance. He’s put fanciful notions in your head, missy. Three, and that’s my final offer.’
Flora felt her courage leave her – she knew she was out of her depth in this. She looked over at her fellow customer. ‘Perhaps I should let you negotiate on my behalf?’ she said to him, seeing how his eyes were travelling over her face in that oh-so familiar way.
He hitched up his eyebrows. ‘I’m flattered! Are you quite sure you want to entrust such a task to a complete stranger?’
‘You couldn’t do a worse job of it than me,’ she shrugged.
The man regarded her for a moment before holding out his hand; a gold ring flashed on his little finger. ‘George Pepperly. At your service.’
‘Flora MacQueen.’
‘Flora MacQueen,’ he echoed, as if trying out the name for size while he shook her hand. A beat passed as he regarded her more closely now, seemingly seeing what the pawnbroker did not – a lost young woman, caught between two lives. Two different worlds. ‘See?’ he said finally. ‘We aren’t complete strangers now.’
Pepperly looked back at the pawnbroker and held out a hand for the eyeglass. ‘May I?’
Reluctantly, it was handed over, and Flora waited as he too examined the stones. ‘Hm . . . Good clarity, deep colour . . . very few inclusions.’ He wagged a finger at Dougie. ‘This is worth £5 15s any day of the week and you and I both know it.’
There was a silence. The pawnbroker looked furious. ‘£3 10s.’
‘£5,’ Pepperly countered.
‘£4 on the nose.’
‘£4 19s.’
‘£4 10s.’
‘Intriguing!’ Pepperly said, not missing a beat as he turned back to her. ‘What do you say, Miss MacQueen? Does £4 10s sound like a fair deal to you?’
She stared back at him. He knew perfectly well that she had no idea what a fair deal might be. Slowly, she nodded.
‘I would be happy to ac—’
‘Of course, you don’t have to sell at all,’ Pepperly said, interrupting her again. ‘You do realize that, I hope? There are plenty of other options open to you.’
She looked at him in confusion. ‘Options?’
‘Pepperly,’ Dougie said in a warning tone.
The customer ignored him, his attention entirely on Flora. ‘For making money, Miss MacQueen. This beautiful ring must hold an extremely high sentimental value, no matter what tragedy has befallen your engagement; as you have just admirably demonstrated, you have worn it every day for the past year.’ His eyes fell to the deep tan line on her finger. ‘I fear you might come to regret selling it, sooner or later.’
‘I won’t,’ she lied. She just had to do this and get out of here.
‘Not to mention, what you would get for this would be spare change to what you could actually earn.’
‘Earn?’
He reached into his jacket and brought out a small ivory card.
Behind the counter, Dougie gave a weary shake of his head and a small groan as he stepped back, sitting down on a stool she hadn’t noticed before now and beginning to read a newspaper; the same edition she had seen by the station earlier.
George Pepperly – Theatre Impresario read the card.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ she said, going to hand it back.
‘No, no, keep it, it’s yours,’ he said quickly, holding up a hand. ‘In case you want my number.’
‘Why should I want that?’
‘To call me!’ he laughed, crossing his arms over his chest and looking intrigued by her. ‘Believe it or not, there are a great many young ladies who would give a kidney to get hold of my private number.’
She rolled her eyes and went to turn away. ‘I am not intere—’
‘Does my name really mean nothing to you?’ He seemed genuinely interested.
‘Why should it?’
He gave a laugh as he looked her up and down, his curiosity growing by the moment. ‘Tell me, where is it you’re from exactly, Miss MacQueen? You’re not from Glasgow, I can tell.’
She debated lying but didn’t have the energy. ‘St Kilda.’
‘Ah!’ There was a pause as he nodded, as if in perfect understanding. ‘Well, now that makes sense . . . Of course it does,’ he said, sizing up her clothing and stalling slightly at her new coiffure. ‘It also explains why you, with a face like that, haven’t been put in front of me before now.’
‘Excuse me?’
He narrowed his eyes as he continued to scrutinize her. ‘Can you act?’
‘Act?’ she asked, confused. ‘What’s that?’
Another laugh. ‘Sing, then?’
This time her eyes narrowed. ‘. . . Aye.’
‘Can you dance?’
She hesitated. ‘. . . Strip the Willow, Mairi’s Wedding—’
She was stopped by his gale of laughter. ‘That wasn’t quite what I meant, but . . .’ He nodded, as if agreeing with a voice in his head. ‘Miss MacQueen, tell me – do you have dinner plans for tonight?’
She blinked. Did she look like someone who had dinner plans? ‘I plan to catch my train.’
‘Oh? Where to?’
‘Why would I tell you such a thing?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘What I mean to say is, could you possibly delay getting your train until tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I need to get back to my family,’ she said, not quite sure how her transaction had come to be hijacked by this man. ‘We’ve suffered a misfortune and I’m needed back home. I only came down here today to help and now I must get back.’
Her irritation didn’t appear to land because he leaned in again. ‘Misfortune?’ he probed.
‘It’s private.’
‘But if I could help . . .’ he persisted. ‘And I do believe I could.’
Flora held her breath for a moment. ‘Help’ wasn’t a word she had heard offered since they’d landed on the mainland. Work, earn, pay, on the other hand . . . ‘My father suffered an accident yesterday and can’t work.’
‘Accident?’
He was nothing if not persistent, she supposed. ‘A logging accident – with the misery whip.’
Both men winced.
‘But he’s alive?’ the pawnbroker asked, interested now.
‘Aye, but badly maimed.’
‘And that’s why you’re selling this beautiful ring?’ Pepperly asked, still holding the ring between his fingers.
She looked away. She couldn’t trust herself to hold her resolve.
‘If she’s selling the rich fiancé’s ring, either he’s no longer rich or he’s no longer her fiancé,’ the pawnbroker chuckled, going back to his paper. ‘In which case, she wants to be rid of it.’
‘But she doesn’t have to be, that’s the thing,’ Pepperly said, looking back at her. ‘What if I told you that you could make more money in one night than this ring cost brand new?’
She blinked back, unimpressed. ‘I wouldn’t believe you.’
‘Miss MacQueen, I could make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that wouldn’t be difficult, given that money means precious little to me. I’m a St Kildan, remember? I trade in feathers and wool.’ She turned back to the pawnbroker. ‘Thank you, mister, I’ll acce—’
‘I keep a suite at the Grand Central,’ Pepperly said quickly, leaning over to catch her eye again.
But it was her hand that he caught – with his cheek. The slap resounded loudly in the small shop and she gasped in surprise herself, at what she had done.
There was a moment’s stunned silence.
She pushed her hair back from her face, feeling fear creep up her bones. What had she done? Driving men to anger was never wise. ‘I’ll not be insulted,’ she said quietly, snatching the ring from him and taking a step back, getting ready to run. ‘I may be poor but I am no slut!’
‘. . . And I’m very glad to hear it,’ Pepperly replied after a moment, making no move to retaliate. ‘Standards matter.’
She looked at him in confusion.
‘I apologize if I caused offence. I was not – and am not – propositioning you, I assure you.’
‘What, then?’ Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
‘The room would be for you to stay there – alone, safely. I have my own home in the city where I fully intend to sleep tonight. I would simply like the opportunity to talk to you, at length, in a more . . . salubrious environment.’
‘Hey!’ the shopkeeper objected.
‘Talk to me about what?’
Pepperly smiled, his eyes twinkling with delight, the handprint on his cheek already forgotten. ‘About how I’m going to make you a star.’
She closed her eyes, letting the words settle for a moment. Even just a few months ago, they would have enthralled her – but she was no longer that girl. A red lipstick could no longer turn her head; sweet words couldn’t steal her heart. She knew now that promises were like rainbows: inspiring but distant and impossible to catch. She had to live in the real world, the world where money was the master, not dreams.
She looked back at the pawnbroker. ‘I’ll accept your offer for the ring, sir.’
The man glanced back at the other customer in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate to open up his till.
‘Miss MacQueen, I’m not sure you understand the opportunity you’re missing out on here,’ Mr Pepperly said, leaning towards her. ‘If you’ll just place your trust in me, you’ll become a rich young woman and all the trappings of fame shall be yours. Whatever your heart desires – furs, cars, jewels. You can buy your own sapphire rings.’
She winced, staring at her fingernails with intense scrutiny as she waited for the pawnbroker to count out the money they’d agreed. She didn’t want rings. The only thing she wanted couldn’t be bought. ‘Are you rich?’ she asked him, looking up suddenly.
He smiled, looking gratified by the question. ‘Yes.’
‘Then why are you here, in a pawn shop?’
‘Ah.’ He seemed amused to have been caught out by the contradiction. ‘I’m settling a debt for a friend.’
‘You’re quite the Good Samaritan, Mr Pepperly,’ she said with such outright suspicion that the pawnbroker laughed. ‘Settling friends’ debts. Making strangers rich.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I operate entirely from the goodness of my heart,’ he conceded. ‘I take my cut from every deal. The smart fellow’s share is on every dish, as they say.’
‘Aye. And I was always taught that the man that divides the pudding will have the thick end to himself.’ It had been her father’s firm opinion of the factor, for sure, and she was tired of being manipulated by cleverer, wilier, richer men.
The producer squirmed at her words. ‘. . . If you wish to negotiate terms, Miss MacQueen, I’m willing to be flexible on my commission. Far more flexible than usual.’
The pawnbroker placed the coins and notes into Flora’s outstretched palm. She looked down at them – small change to Pepperly, perhaps, but still greater than anything she or her own had ever seen. Along with the money from her hair, it meant she had got everything she’d come for today – and more besides. ‘No,’ she said, looking back at Pepperly coldly. ‘Thank you for the kind offer, but my mind is set.’
‘Terms are, we’ll keep the ring for thirty days,’ the pawnbroker said. ‘Then it’ll be sold here or at auction.’
She swallowed hard. Tears misted her eyes. ‘. . . I’ll not be back for it.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ he sighed, reaching under the counter and retrieving a green leather ring box. Flora watched as he pushed the ring into deep folds of emerald velvet. Its quality rang out against the other jewels glistening under the glass.
She stared at it: her last thread of connection to James finally cut away. There was nothing to tie them to one another now. She was unmoored from him. Fully alone.
‘Miss MacQueen, please—’
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Pepperly. Good day.’ And she turned away and left the store without another word.