Marriage brought unforeseen problems for Steven Anderson. The first was his family, and the second was expense.
Because he was ashamed of his mother and sister, he did not invite them to the wedding, or even tell them that he was getting married. Hester was told that both were too unwell to attend.
She accepted that, but continually pressed him to take her to Edinburgh to visit her new in-laws.
‘It seems so terrible that we are strangers to each other,’ she said.
He made excuses, pleading pressure of work and secretly hoping that his female relations would die before she wore him down. Eventually she dropped the subject, thinking that his mother must be so possessive and jealous of her son that she could not bear the idea of him taking a wife.
In fact, when he imagined leading Hester up the worn stone steps to his family flat, he quailed. The contrast with Beechwood was too glaring to contemplate, because the tenement where his mother lived was truly squalid. The stairs smelt of urine and various vagrants could always be found sleeping on the steps of the lower flight after running the gas from the lamps in the narrow hall into mugs of cheap wine or, occasionally, methylated spirits.
One day, he promised himself, he’d find his family a more salubrious place to live – but that would have to wait, because at the moment he had debts. The elegant suit he bought for his wedding cost more than he’d ever paid for a whole year’s clothes before and, moreover, he needed money to jingle in his pocket when he walked round the town with Hester’s father.
The tin money box on his desk was a constant reminder of the huge sum of money that he had under his control – money that would probably never be spent. Nobody would ever know if he helped himself to a little of it.
He and his committee had become even more stringent about punishing wrongdoers by withholding their money, and much of the unused surplus went straight into the relief man’s pocket; but even that was not enough. Hester was proving to be extremely parsimonious about handing out pocket money to him, and though he now lived in Beechwood with no expenses for food or rent, he still needed funds, because his wage was too low for his newly adopted lifestyle.
Sitting at his desk on a hot summer day, he painstakingly worked out exactly how much of the fund had been disbursed, and what was left.
The pay-out was minuscule, which made him feel virtuous. He’d certainly not thrown money around. There was still £49,000 left. Some of the capital was invested, but the majority of it was lying on deposit. Something ought to be done with it.
He mopped his brow, put on his jacket and walked to the bank. ‘I think we ought to do something about investing more of the fund money,’ he told the young manager who had replaced McIntyre.
‘Were you thinking of government stock?’
‘No; a friend of mine is starting a friendly society and it will be very secure and profitable. I think we should put five hundred pounds into it.’
The bank manager furrowed his brow. ‘Can we legally do that?’
‘Of course the other committee members will have to agree. I’ll ask them and let you know.’
It was easy to win round his colleagues to his plan. He deliberately did not ask Alan Cochrane, who seemed to go out of his way to question everything these days.
On the following day he told Hester that he was going to Edinburgh on fund business. Her face brightened. ‘I’ll come with you. We can go to see your mother.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s money business, my dear. I’ll go up on one train and return on the next. There’ll be no time for visiting.’
With the money in his pocket, he opened a bank account in his own name at a palatial bank in George Street. It was difficult to conceal his awe and admiration as he stared round the magnificent central hall with its stained-glass windows, highly polished wooden counters and marble pillars rearing up to a domed glass roof. Because he had a considerable sum to deposit, he was received with a politeness that made him feel godlike.
After the transaction was completed, he said to the clerk, ‘I think I’ll take out some money to tide me over for the meantime.’
‘Certainly, sir; how much would you like?’
He frowned. ‘A hundred will do for now, I think.’
Before he returned to Eyemouth he paid a call on his mother and sister and gave them five pounds each. Even then he did not tell them that he was now a married man.
There’s no point confusing them with too much information, he told himself.
Having money in his pocket was heady. He bestowed a few coins on the complaisant widows, and next day slipped sixpence to Jean, the little scullery maid at Beechwood, who could not fight him off when he slipped his hand inside her blouse and threw her on to the floor of the back pantry where she was meant to be cleaning the knives. Like all his encounters, it was over in seconds, and she was too scared of him to scream.
The other maids found her weeping and she told them her story. When they saw him after that, they fled at his approach. Once again, the thought that women were rejecting him acted like a spur, and he began stealthily prowling the corridors at night, trying to get into the maids’ bedrooms. Fortunately for him, Hester was a heavy sleeper and the girls were careful to shove chairs under their door handles to keep him out.
But they talked about him to the girls in the washhouse.
‘Imagine, he took poor wee Jean against her will and him only newly married!’ they exclaimed.
‘He’s a bad lot,’ said Jessie. ‘Why didn’t Jean tell Miss Hester what he’d done?’
The oldest maid stared hard at her in disbelief and asked, ‘And what do you think would happen then? Jean would be sent off without a reference. Miss Hester wouldn’t believe a word of it. She’d say it was all lies.’
Two months after he first took money from the fund, Anderson was back at the Eyemouth bank. All smiles, he laid fifty pounds left from his original hundred on the manager’s desk and said, ‘Pay that into the fund, sir; it’s interest on the five hundred I invested with my friend. Ten per cent is a good return in such a short time, isn’t it?’
The manager was suitably impressed, and when Anderson returned a month later – You mustn’t rush these things, he thought – to ask for another five hundred to invest, he was given it with alacrity. It was almost too easy, and he wished his father and sister knew how clever he was. That would make them eat all those cruel words about him being a dunce.
During all those machinations he could only spare an occasional thought for the girl with the yellow hair. He knew she was no longer working with Mrs Lyall because he kept his eye on the dress shop. When Jessie collected her weekly money, he dared not ask where Rosabelle had gone, because he remembered her violent reaction to his attempt to waylay them on the way from Burnmouth.
His wife was the one who told him the girl had gone to the Gibsons in Berwick. When she was planning her winter wardrobe, she paid a call on Mrs Lyall and asked if Rosabelle would make her a dinner gown.
‘I’m afraid she no longer works with me. I had to get rid of her. But I’ll be happy to make you a dinner gown, Mrs Anderson,’ said Mrs Lyall.
Hester’s face fell. She’d been happy enough with Mrs Lyall’s creations for years, but the wedding dress had raised her standards.
‘I suppose that girl’s gone back to fish-gutting,’ she said.
The dressmaker shook her head. ‘Not yet. She’s found a position with the Gibsons in Hide Hill at Berwick. They make a lot of clothes for the garrison wives, but I don’t think Rosabelle is up to that. Those women are very demanding.’
Hester shook her head and ordered a dinner gown. But she could afford more than one, and was determined to make a trip to Berwick to try out the Gibson establishment.
That night at dinner she said to her husband, ‘What about going to Berwick soon? We can borrow Father’s barouche for the trip.’
Feeling expansive because of the money in his pocket, he beamed. ‘Anything you want, my dear. When would you like to go?’
‘Tomorrow, perhaps. There’s a dressmaker there I’d like to see. Do you remember my wedding dress?’
He nodded. ‘Indeed I do. You looked like a queen in it.’
‘Well, the girl who made it used to be employed by Mrs Lyall in the town, but she’s gone to Berwick and works there for another dressmaker. I want a new winter wardrobe, because I seem to be growing a little larger round the waist. I think I might have something nice to tell you soon.’ Her voice became coy.
Her father, who was glumly and silently eating his dinner without apparently listening to what they were saying, looked up with new animation and asked, ‘Are you expecting a child, Hester?’
She blushed scarlet. ‘Oh Father, don’t be so direct. It’s just a suspicion…’
‘Then let’s hope it’s well grounded. I want a grandchild. I miss having children around the house,’ said the old man.
Then he looked at his son-in-law and thought, Maybe he’s good for something after all, because as far as he was concerned Anderson had not improved with greater acquaintance. In fact, he would even have preferred her to marry the minister, because there was something about the relief man that disturbed him.
Anderson felt as if he’d received a jab in the chest when he heard Hester talking about the girl in the dress shop. As casually as he could manage, he asked, ‘Do you mean that tall girl with the yellow hair, one of the disaster widows?’
‘Yes, that’s her. She’s some relation to that pert little piece who washes our aprons, but she’s a clever dressmaker. I want to give her a try.’
‘I’m rather busy, but I’ll come with you to Berwick,’ he said benignly, cutting a chunk off a slab of Cheddar cheese. He was looking forward to the trip and thought it would be amusing to confront Rosabelle at her new place of work.
They rode to Berwick in style on a fine autumn afternoon and alighted at the door of the Gibson establishment. When old Mrs Gibson saw a man with her new client, she was discomfited: to be fitted, women had to take off their dresses and stand in their petticoats. It was not appropriate for men to be present.
‘Would you mind waiting in the parlour, sir?’ she asked, and he was forced into a little, over-furnished room on the other side of the hall. This did not please him at all.
‘Will it take long?’ he asked, pouting.
‘Oh no, sir. I will just discuss your wife’s requirements and call in my dressmaker to measure her. It won’t take any time at all.’
The information about calling in the dressmaker was what he wanted. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said, and took care to leave the parlour door slightly ajar.
After about ten minutes, he heard a bell ringing in the salon. From upstairs a door opened and feet sounded on the stairs. Jumping up, he ran across to the door and peered into the hall. Rosabelle was coming down the stairs and she looked even more beautiful than before. His heart leaped at the sight of her.
When her foot landed on the tiled floor of the hall, he stepped through the door and smiled at her. Caught unawares, she looked straight into his face and staggered, putting out a hand to the newel post.
‘Good afternoon Mrs Scott,’ he said, bowing in what he hoped was a sarcastic way.
She said nothing, only stared wide-eyed at him. I’ll never be rid of him, she thought. Her eyes were blue-green like the sea, he noticed.
There was another ring from the bell, and Mrs Gibson’s voice called out, ‘Rosabelle!’ so she brushed past him and ran into the salon.
Satisfied at having upset her, he went back into the parlour and settled down to wait for Hester. The girl he’d waylaid was shaking and her heart racing when she went into the salon. It was only with a great effort of will that she calmed down and was able to concentrate on the task in hand.
To her relief, Anderson and his wife rode off in their carriage before she emerged into the hall again. It doesn’t matter if he knows where I work now. He can’t do anything to me, she told herself.
Seeing Rosabelle again, however, re-awakened Anderson’s passion. He did not accept that she was too startled to compose herself when he appeared, and went over and over the way her blue-green eyes fixed themselves on his face. Her look had been open, direct, even challenging – not disdainful any longer. She’d learned her lesson.
Now that he had money in his pocket and was wearing smart clothes, he was sure that she wouldn’t withstand him. She was just a seamstress. He could buy her.
He knew that she had two possible ways of getting to Berwick: by the carter, or on the train. Next evening he lurked in the dark passages of the fishing town till he saw her hurrying home.
After that he waited on the outskirts of the town at the same time and saw her walking down the hill from Burnmouth, so worked out that she used the train.
Though he watched her, he hurried away and did not accost her. He was laying his plans carefully.
By the time of Mrs Anderson’s visit – and substantial order – Rosabelle was well established in Mrs Gibson’s esteem.
The main business of the shop on Hide Hill had always been selling frills and furbelows; a small but select group of women, however, also went there to have gowns made, and as the new girl’s fame spread, that clientele was growing.
As she felt easier in her new job, Rosabelle’s confidence and peace of mind grew too. The kind Mrs Gibson and her daughter Marie were pleased to notice that, a couple of weeks after her return from the bout of illness, her tense expression began to soften and she even smiled sometimes.
For her own part, Rosabelle was feeling a little happier, especially because during her working hours she was out of sight of the sea. She had not realized how much she hated it, and how much it dominated her life at Eyemouth. Even on fine days, she was aware of it murmuring away in the background, and on wild days its roaring terrified her. Whenever she raised her head and stared at the horizon, she saw the Hurkars and remembered Dan’s terrible death.
In Berwick, her view was of busy streets, shops and Mrs Gibson’s pretty garden. The sea was well hidden beyond the ancient town walls.
When her employers found out that she rose at five o’clock in the morning to ride in the carter’s dray to work, they were horrified and asked, ‘Why don’t you come by train?’
‘There’s no station in Eyemouth – only at Burnmouth, two miles away.’
‘But wouldn’t that still be quicker for you?’
‘Probably, but the carter brings me in for nothing because he knows my mother-in-law. I’d have to buy a ticket for the train.’
‘My dear, we were going to give you a rise because your work is so good, but let us pay for your train ticket instead,’ said Miss Marie.
So Rosabelle could now stay in bed till half past six and arrive fresh, dry and not wind-blown even in the worst weather.
She liked the Gibsons and her confidence grew as she realized that they liked her too. Because she’d never really been out of Eyemouth, she was shy and unsure of herself anywhere else. What also boosted her was the praise her work received from the Gibsons’ clientele – especially from Madame Rachelle.
Some customers specified precisely what they wanted, or brought illustrations cut out of magazines for her to copy; but others, like Rachelle, came in with swathes of materials and asked the Gibsons to devise eye-catching creations out of them.
She was the most demanding client of all and preened and pirouetted in front of the pier glass, holding lengths of cloth up against herself. ‘Give me some ideas! What do I do with this?’ she imperiously demanded in her strange foreign accent. She gave them to understand that English was not her native language, though she never seemed to be at loss for words.
To please her, dresses had to be extravagant and daring, more London or Paris in style than Berwick, and heads turned in the streets of the town when she swished by, which, of course, was the effect she wanted to create.
At first Rosabelle was too much in awe of her to speak during fittings, but stood silent beside Miss Marie, carrying tailor’s chalk or papers of pins while the worried little woman ran round Madame Rachelle pinning up here or draping there. It was on the day that the customer brought in a luscious length of figured crimson satin that the girl found her tongue.
‘I want a ball gown. I see it with a huge skirt – over a hoop at the back, perhaps – and a train that I’ll carry over my arm,’ said Madame Rachelle.
Unable to stop herself, Rosabelle fingered the material. It was so soft and luscious, she wanted to rub it against her cheek but didn’t dare. The colour was like rubies, which would set off Rachelle’s milk-white skin and jet-black hair.
‘Don’t have a big skirt and certainly don’t have a hoop. This dress should be fitted, long and flowing, like a statue…’ she blurted out, making a long, elegant shape with her hands.
Rachelle stared at her, eyes sharp. ‘Could you make a dress like that?’ she asked.
‘I could try.’
‘It’s not a question of trying. This material is French and cost a fortune. Could you make the dress?’
‘Yes, I could.’
Rachelle bundled up the valuable cloth and thrust it at the girl. ‘All right. Do it. I want to wear it in three days’ time at the garrison ball.’
As she held the lovely stuff in her arms, Rosabelle wondered how she was going to carry out the commission in such a short time; but she’d said she could, and she was not going to let the Gibsons down by changing her mind.
The first thing to do was make a template pattern. Mrs Gibson helped because she had Madame Rachelle’s measurements. The two of them ran to and fro round the cutting table with enormous scissors in their hands, almost afraid to be the first one to cut into the lovely material.
Rosabelle eventually took the plunge and daringly clipped out a panel for the front of the skirt.
On the third day the scarlet gown was almost finished, but when Madame Rachelle arrived to collect it, Rosabelle was still putting in the finishing stitches and the imperious client was barely able to conceal her impatience.
‘I can’t wait. I have no time to try it now. My cab is outside. Bring the dress and come with me. You can fit it on me in my rooms. In fact you can sew me into it. I want it to be skin-tight,’ she said, rapping her parasol sharply on the floor.
Rosabelle was in confusion. She heard the town clock chiming five from the end of Marygate. ‘I’ll finish the dress for you, madame,’ said Mrs Gibson; but Rachelle ignored that and spoke to Rosabelle, for she wanted only the talented girl to make her dress.
‘You can stay the night with me!’ she said grandly, but Mrs Gibson saw the expression of panic on Rosabelle’s face at that suggestion.
She said, ‘But if I miss my train my mother-in-law will worry about me.’
Mrs Gibson said reassuringly, ‘I’ll send a message to Eyemouth for your family. Write a note and say you’ll be on the later train.’
Rosabelle flushed scarlet. She could sign her name with considerable effort, but writing a note, especially in front of strangers, was beyond her.
Kind Mrs Gibson saw the girl’s confusion and in a flash understood the reason, so she said quickly, ‘But you’re too busy to write notes now. I’ll do it for you and send it off with the messenger boy. Who should it be addressed to?’
‘To Effie Young, at Jimmy Dip’s house. If the boy goes to the Ship Inn on the harbour side, they’ll direct him from there,’ Rosabelle stammered.
With the dress in her arms she was bustled out of the salon before she had time to think, and driven to Rachelle’s rooms on the first floor of an elegant Georgian house further up Hide Hill, nearer the barracks.
The furnishings were very ornate. Swagged curtains framed the windows, gilt-wood chairs with green satin upholstery stood around an oval maple table, and there were china figurines everywhere, gesturing from the chimneypiece, from the top of a bookcase and on every spindle-legged side table. The lighting was flickering wax candles in gilt sconces.
While Rosabelle worked on the dress, Madame Rachelle pouted in front of a round mirror, painting on her maquillage. First of all she cleaned her daytime cosmetics off, and when Rosabelle looked up and caught sight of her at that stage, she was surprised by how ordinary the mystery woman looked. Positively plain, in fact.
After the application of white skin cream, red rouge, black eyebrow pencil, lip salve, eyelash darkener, and face powder splashed generously all over the body from an enormous feathery powder puff, however, a work of art re-emerged and Rachelle, in underskirt and tightly laced corset, turned round on her stool to beam at the dressmaker.
Rosabelle would have died before she took off her clothes in front of anyone but Dan, but this woman seemed to have no qualms about parading around in hardly anything at all.
‘Now for the gown,’ Rachelle said, exultantly stretching out her arms.
The red dress fitted like another skin. Two broad straps went over the white shoulders and the bodice plunged into a deep declivity between generous, powdered breasts. Rachelle’s waist was already tiny, but Rosabelle was told to pull the client’s corset laces tighter, and she wondered how Madame would ever manage to breathe, far less eat anything.
The skirt was draped over her hips into a long fishtail at the back and drawn tight across the legs to the feet, leaving only the tips of black kid dancing pumps peeping out. At last, satisfied, Rosabelle stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The effect was stunning.
‘Sew me in. I can’t take the risk of any hooks and eyes popping open,’ cried Madame Rachelle, pirouetting in delight in front of her mirror.
‘But how will you get out of it after the ball?’ Rosabelle wanted to know.
Rachelle laughed gaily. ‘My dear, that’s not a worry. My friend will take it off me, I’ve no doubt – and he’ll enjoy doing it.’
Rosabelle flushed and the other woman, noticing her embarrassment, laughed. ‘What a prude you are,’ she said mockingly, and began to take mincing steps around the room to make sure she could move in the new gown.
Then she looked back over her shoulder and suddenly, sensing the bleakness that filled the young woman who watched her dancing about so light-heartedly, said gently, ‘You’re a very clever girl and a very pretty one. Have you ever been to a ball?’
Rosabelle shook her head and said witheringly, ‘No.’
‘Can you dance?’ asked Rachelle, remembering that Eyemouth was a fishing village, and she’d heard that dancing was forbidden in some fishing communities for religious reasons. Did the girl come from one of them?
‘Oh yes, I can dance,’ said Rosabelle, remembering summer nights when a fiddler played on the quayside and townspeople, young and old, danced to his music. Her skin prickled as she remembered Dan’s arms around her, lifting her off her feet,his white teeth flashing as he laughed down into her face. The awful sadness that filled her was too much to bear and, in spite of her determination not to yield, tears filled her eyes.
‘Yes, I can dance, but I haven’t done much of it recently. I’m a widow,’ she said shortly, turning her face away.
Rachelle stopped dead, taken aback. Shamefacedly, she said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. But you’re too young to be a widow – hardly old enough to be a wife. How old are you, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Twenty-one. My husband was drowned in the fishing disaster.’
As she spoke, Rosabelle realized with dread how much sadness had filled her life since Dan died.
When she saw how the girl trembled, Madame Rachelle’s whole manner changed – even her voice became different, less foreign, and more natural. ‘Someone I loved was drowned that day too,’ she said.
‘I know. I saw you at his funeral,’ Rosabelle said bleakly.
As if she wanted to hide her face, Rachelle turned away and began fiddling with her earrings, struggling ineffectually to thread their long metal wires through the pierced holes. There were tears in the painted eyes. Putting in earrings was only a diversion. Eventually she succeeded and by that time her composure had returned. The French accent was back too.
‘He was a very amusing and special man. I met him in Dieppe and came here to be near him,’ she said in a sudden burst of confidence.
‘A lot of special men died that day,’ Rosabelle agreed bitterly.
There was a bond between them now.
‘But life goes on, you know. Don’t forget that. You’re young; you have a lot of living in front of you. Would you like to start by coming to the ball with me?’ asked Rachelle.
Rosabelle was horrified. ‘Oh! No, no. I couldn’t.’
‘Why not? You’ve never been to a ball and this one is very grand. It’s the start of the Christmas season.’
Holding out the skirt of her blue working dress, Rosabelle said, ‘Don’t mock me. How could I go to a ball dressed like this?’
‘I’m not mocking you. We’re almost the same height and the same build. You could wear one of my gowns. I have many.’ Rachelle was once again looking at herself in the mirror and fastening a sparkling necklace round her neck.
Are those diamonds? Rosabelle wondered as she stared at the glittering stones.
As if she could read her mind, Rachelle laughed: ‘Only paste, my dear, but good paste. Did you hear what I said about giving you a dress?’
‘Yes, but I don’t feel like going to a ball.’ Rosabelle wondered if this woman was playing some sort of game with her.
‘So you plan to mourn for ever?’ The necklace was being adjusted into place so that its large central pendant hung down between the generous breasts.
‘Probably.’ A short, crisp reply.
‘What a shame. You are so lovely. I’ve been thinking that I could launch you into society. I could make your fortune. Let me dress you up and you will cause a sensation at the ball.’
‘No’ The tone was stern; Rosabelle found it difficult to stay barely polite, remembering that Madame Rachelle was a good customer of the Gibsons and must be kept sweet. She twisted the plump velvet wrist pad of pins on her arm and said abruptly, ‘Are you satisfied with your dress, madame? Can I go now?’ But the client was persistent once she had an idea in her head. ‘If your husband truly loved you he wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life mourning.’
A red tide of colour rose up Rosabelle’s neck and over her cheeks. ‘You don’t know what Dan would want. Or what I want. Please let me go home.’
Suddenly repentant, Rachelle crossed the room and put a hand on the girl’s sleeve, saying, ‘Forgive me. I’ve been watching you at the Gibsons’ and thought it would be amusing to bring some excitement into your life. It’s sad to see you so weighed down with sorrow. At least let me show you the ball – it might sharpen your taste for society.’
Her flow of talk seemed unstoppable and though Rosabelle tried, she could not get in a word.
‘If you were ever to leave your little town, you could make your way anywhere, especially with such talent. I could do so much for you. No, don’t interrupt. Listen. Accompany me to the ball. Come as my lady’s maid to make sure that your wonderful dress is properly arranged before I make my grand entrance. You want it to look its best, don’t you? I’ll find you a seat on the balcony and you can watch what goes on.’ Rosabelle was shaking her head, but Rachelle still did not give up. ‘It’ll be better than going to the theatre, believe me. I’ll make sure you get home safely. I’ll send you back in a carriage, like Cinderella,’ she said.
‘I’ve never been to a theatre either and I don’t think—’ Rosabelle was trying to go on refusing but was stopped by an imperious hand held up in front of her.
‘No! I really need you to arrange my skirts. Your work is not finished yet. The cab is outside. We must go now. I’m late already. He’ll be furious.’
There was nothing to do but agree. ‘Then please make sure I get home tonight,’ protested Rosabelle, but she went with Rachelle, intrigued in spite of herself.
The ball was held in the huge assembly hall of the army barracks at the top of Hide Hill. Their cab rumbled through the guarded entrance gate into a vast courtyard that was lit with blazing flambeaux on long poles. Uniformed guards, rifles by their sides, stood ramrod-stiff at the main door.
Guests were milling about – some of the men in ordinary evening clothes but most in brilliant military uniforms with brass buttons and gold or silver braiding. All were accompanied by beautifully dressed women in vast crinoline dresses with skirts that swept the ground and flowers in their hair or tucked into their corsages.
In spite of her anxiety at being whisked into this scene Rosabelle was gratified to see that Madame Rachelle’s gown, with its long narrow skirt, was the only one that did not take up a vast area of space; but in spite of that it attracted every female eye.
A choleric-looking grey-haired man in a scarlet uniform with huge gold-fringed epaulettes, a sash and a row of glittering medals on his chest, came hurrying out of the porch when Rachelle’s cab rolled up. His irritation melted away when she smiled graciously at him from the cab window, and as they dismounted she whispered to Rosabelle, ‘That’s my man – Colonel Fairweather, veteran of the Crimea. Will you cany my shawl, please?’
When she spoke to the Colonel, she sounded even more foreign than ever, rolling her words as if they were sweetmeats in her mouth. ‘My darleeng, you look magnificent. All day I have been longing to see you,’ she said, laying her gloved hand on his arm.
He visibly relaxed. ‘Come on, my dear. We must hurry. I have to receive the important guests inside.’
Rachelle took his arm and whispered something in his ear. He raised one white-gloved hand to summon a young officer who was waiting nearby. ‘Find madame’s maid a seat on the balcony and see that she is well looked after,’ he ordered.
Rosabelle, still clutching Rachelle’s shawl, watched as the pair swept off through the door and, as it opened, a blast of intoxicating music came through and filled her with a feeling of exhilaration.
The young officer who had been assigned to look after her was impressed by her golden beauty and smiled as he said, ‘Come this way, miss. I’ll find you a good place.’
She followed. There was nothing else she could do.
He was most attentive as he installed her in a chair beside a line of ladies’ maids and chaperons who were all leaning over the balcony rail, discussing the people milling around beneath them. They paid no attention to the newcomer.
When Rachelle appeared out of the antechamber on the arm of her silver-haired escort, there was a concerted in-drawing of breath, and a stern-looking older woman among the watchers said, ‘Look at that French hussy! She’s got her claws into the Colonel now. His wife only died eighteen months ago.’
‘She moves fast, that one,’ said another woman, who looked like a genteel lady’s maid.
‘It was Major Blackshaw last season, but the Colonel has more money, and he’s the son of a duke,’ added another, as they all leaned further over to get a good view of Rachelle, who obliged them by finding a position in an open space and slowly turning to show herself off. She did indeed look magnificent.
The most genteel lady’s maid of all sighed. ‘But what a beautiful gown. I’ve never seen anything so elegant. Where do you think she got it?’
‘That wasn’t made in Berwick, I’m sure. It probably came from Paris and cost enough to pay all our wages for a year!’ snapped the stern woman.
In spite of her fear at being whisked off to the ball, Rosabelle hugged herself in delight and pride. It was wonderful to hear her work being so highly praised.
She was wondering how to make her escape when the attentive officer returned carrying a fluted glass full of sparkling golden liquid. ‘From the Colonel’s lady for you, miss,’ he said, handing it over.
The glass felt very cold in her hand and she looked at it suspiciously. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘Champagne. It’ll put bubbles in your brain.’
It did. The wine seemed to explode in her mouth and shocked her, but within seconds, it was also making her feel unexpectedly carefree. She leaned on to the padded shelf of the balcony rail and stared down at Rachelle, who smiled slyly back as if she was saying, I told you so! I’m going to make it my business to change your life.
That first glass of champagne was followed by another, as the music swelled and resounded from the high roof, filling Rosabelle with the sort of wild wonder and delight that she had not felt for a very long time.
When an attentive waiter in soldier’s uniform appeared with a napkin-covered tray of delicious food, the other women stared at her in envy, because they would not be allowed to eat until the important guests had finished at the buffet.
Ignoring their stares, Rosabelle delicately picked at fish, chicken in aspic and little pastry cases with delicious but, to her, unidentifiable fillings. There were slices of ham and beef cut so thin they were transparent, as well as sweets made of tiny fingers of paper-thin pastry covered with chocolate that melted in her mouth.
When the hands of the clock at the end of the hall showed eleven, she began to panic, however, knowing Effie would be distracted with worry about her. She’d never been out so late in her life.
Leaning over the balcony, she saw Rachelle circling the ballroom in the arms of an officer with a bristling black moustache. She had no idea how to escape, but stood up and draped the shawl over the edge of the balcony as a signal she wanted to make her getaway.
Obviously it was spotted, because within a few moments the young captain was back with a message: ‘Madame Rachelle has asked me to tell you that a carriage is waiting to take you home, miss. If you will come this way,’ he said, holding back the thick velvet curtain that framed the back of the balcony.
A smart hansom, driven by a grizzled-looking soldier, stood at a side door. Rosabelle climbed in, handing Rachelle’s shawl to the captain, and within five minutes fell sound asleep, wrapped up in a thick travelling rug that the driver tucked round her.
At midnight, blinking and only half awake, she alighted outside Effie’s house.
Since the incident with Anderson, Effie had taken to locking the door, so she had to knock heavily on the wooden panels to wake her up. Effie came to the threshold in her long nightgown, looking furious and obviously considering whether she should box Rosabelle’s ears; but in fact relief softened her when she saw the white-faced girl.
‘I was afraid that awful man had got hold of you,’ she snapped.
‘I’m sorry, but I had to finish a ball gown and the woman who ordered it wanted me to go to the ball to make sure it looked right on her,’ Rosabelle gasped incoherently. ‘Then she sent me home in a carriage.’
‘All the way from Berwick!’ Effie was astonished, staring out at the man behind the reins, who cheerfully lifted his whip and called, ‘Good night, miss!’
As Rosabelle waved back, she felt herself coming back down to earth – back to Eyemouth, back to sorrow and sad memories. The memory of champagne and the wonderful kaleidoscope of the ball already seemed like a dream.
None of them saw a dark figure hiding in the shadow of a house wall at the end of the alley. Steven Anderson had been making his late-night promenade of the town and, as it often did, his route took him past the house where Rosabelle lived.
When he heard the trotting feet of a horse and the rumble of wheels – an unusual thing in the fishing town so late at night – he stepped back into the shadows of an alley. When the woman of his dreams alighted and waved goodbye to a man in soldier’s uniform, a bubble of rage exploded in his brain.
She’d found herself a man! He’d convinced himself that she was virtuous and that was the reason she refused him, but now he had proof that she was only a trollop, as bad as the rest of them.