Mr Henry Brandywine was famous, not only for his Book Bazaars in Sydney and Melbourne but for his outrageous publicity stunts. He kept half-a-dozen pet monkeys in his shop. He had advertised one of his books from a hot air balloon, and just last year, he’d painted two white horses to look like zebras and had them pull a carriage all around Melbourne. Well, my exciting news was that Mr Brandywine had read my book – and he wanted to publish it.
Last year I wrote a story about an apprentice milliner. She was a foundling with a mysterious talent. Sound familiar? I changed all the names and made up some new characters, but it was more or less my own tale. Everyone who read it was very encouraging – except Mrs Morcom.
“Take my advice, Verity, and start again. Don’t look like that, girl!” She rapped me across the knuckles. “To be a true artist, you have to take pains. You only need a flash of inspiration – the rest is determination. Hard work. How do you think I got where I am?”
Mrs Morcom was a famous botanical illustrator. There was even a special gallery devoted to her work at London’s Kew Gardens. If anyone knew about hard work, it was she.
So I struggled with my story – “taking pains” as Mrs Morcom recommended – until it turned out to be quite different. I concentrated on the life I knew so well from my days at Madame Louisette’s. My book was called Millie the Milliner.
It was funny and (so Mr Brandywine wrote to me) educational as well. I was visiting the Book Bazaar today so I could meet Mr Brandywine himself. I could hardly wait.
When I first came to live in Australia, I missed London terribly, but now I was almost a colonial. I thought Melbourne was grand. Collins and Bourke streets, with their churches, banks, offices, cafes, smart shops and arcades could compare with the most fashionable parts of London. But what makes a city are its people, and bustling down either side of the road that morning there was already quite a crowd. Not many ladies were about yet, but businesslike gentlemen strode along, hawkers yelled out their wares and errand boys jostled through. Poppy knew the city like the back of her hand, but Connie seemed overwhelmed. Which wasn’t surprising, since she’d just come from the peace and quiet of her home at Riverbend Station up on the river.
“Here, Connie,” I said, stopping and holding out my hand. Suddenly, I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. Someone was watching me.
“She won’t get lost, Verity,” said Poppy.
“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve got ’er.” Poppy flashed her gappy smile. She had Connie’s hand tightly in hers.
“Hurry up, girls,” said Drucilla.
I realised I’d felt the same unsettling sensation earlier today, in the train from St Kilda. I’d put it down to nerves. Excitement. After all, I was about to become a published author, and that’s not something that happens every day. Now I wasn’t so sure. I looked up and down Collins Street. I could feel a pair of eyes boring into me. But whose? No one seemed to be looking my way.
“Here we are,” said Drucilla, stopping in front of the gigantic sign on the window:
BRANDYWINE’S BOOK BAZAAR
THE MARVEL OF MELBOURNE
“Oh my goodness,” breathed Connie.
And if it looked impressive from the outside, with its huge windows and gleaming golden doors, inside the bazaar was even more astonishing. It was huge. Arched iron girders and a glass-panelled roof soared three storeys above us. The ground floor was a maze of polished wood shelves, brass fittings, mirrors, potted palms and fancy cages filled with chattering birds. Not to mention the thousands of books. It was like a cross between a grand hotel, a railway station and a public library.
It was midmorning and the shop was beginning to fill up. We made our way among tables and shelves piled with books, past shop assistants and browsing customers. Two young women were placing new stock in gorgeous red-and-gold bindings on a counter and I thought that one day soon they would be displaying Millie the Milliner.
“We have an appointment with Mr Brandywine,” Drucilla told an assistant.
“This way,” said the young woman.
I was expecting a showman, flamboyant and flashy. But Mr Brandywine turned out to be a soft-spoken man with a slight stutter. He was plainly dressed in an ordinary grey suit and his hair and long beard were well groomed. He held out his hand almost shyly.
“P-p-please take a seat, ladies,” he said. He had armchairs and a tea table right there in the middle of the shop. “Mrs B will be here in a minute. She’s been baking.”
“Baking what?” said Poppy, pricking up her ears.
He turned to Poppy with a smile. “Currant buns, I think. Does that meet with your a-p-p-proval, my dear?” He was clearly used to indulging little girls. “Here she is.”
Mrs Brandywine was a short woman, almost as wide as she was high. In her striped green dress, she reminded me of an unripe gooseberry. Combined with her plump red cheeks and snub nose, she had a rather comical appearance, but Mr Brandywine clearly adored his dumpling of a wife. He took the plate of cakes, settled her in a chair, fussed over her footstool and shawl, and introduced her as if she were Queen Victoria herself.
Then it was down to business. Mr Brandywine took out a portfolio and showed us the sketches that were to illustrate my book. I’d been curious to see what the artist made of my Millie. Mrs Morcom had told me I was bound to be disappointed. She was wrong. The artist had captured Millie to the life.
“Oh, Verity,” whispered Connie. “She’s perfect.”
“What d-d-id you say, young lady?” asked Mr Brandywine.
Connie’s shyness got the better of her, but Poppy answered in a loud, clear voice. “She says it’s perfeck. An’ is it tea time?”
“Indeed it is.” Mr Brandywine closed the portfolio and gestured to the steaming pot.
“Please help yourselves,” said Mrs Brandywine.
I was just reaching for a bun when I froze. It was that feeling again. Someone was staring at me. I turned my head and there she was – a tall woman wearing a grey silk dress and an elegant lavender-coloured bonnet. A black hail-spot veil hid her face, but I could see her eyes glittering behind it. Who was she? Why was she gazing at me so intently? Slowly, she raised her veil, revealing a pale, beautiful face.
I’d seen that face before. It had looked out from its gold frame on my dressing table this morning.