"I also come from humble beginnings, Miss Bluebird," he told me as he showed me around the quayside. A Coram child himself, he'd begun selling jewellery from a graceful white clipper while living on the clumsier "Old Stumpy" - a name which warned me of the schoolboyish wit that was to become my companion.
The harbour was a heartwarming little microcosm; police station, smithy, schoolroom – it even had a post house that sold beer although I doubted I’d be trying it in a hurry, if the description on the barrels was remotely accurate. Horse stain? Embalming fluid? I pointed out a sedan chair lurking on its own at the quayside, apparently shunned by its playmates in the harbour. Hoping to impress Mr Whybrow, I asked if it was a monument to those gentleman who had been displaced by the advent of the Hansom.
He threw back his head and laughed. “You could see it that way, Miss.” Then, in a lower, conspiratorial tone, “That’s your convenience. For answering nature’s call,” he explained, unable to determine whether my look was one of confusion or dismay.
The workhouse discipline reasserted itself quickly. “Very good, sir,” said I, demurely. But then – was it really any worse than the workhouse facilities? Sitting in line with a dozen others? Only if I should need it in a hurry, I suppose, and someone was already in there.
Then it was time to be shown The Shop. At first, I was speechless at the prospect of wearing all the fabulous jewellery for the benefit of others. But first things first. Mr Whybrow showed me where everything was – the wares were sufficiently well-signposted for me to need no guide, but he did point out the counter and back office to which I was to have unrestricted access. A peculiar pipe arrangement behind the counter was explained as “A Lamson Tube” for sending messages to his workshop. But that, I only asked about as it stood out.
I think Mr Whybrow appreciated that I was going to be somewhat spellbound on first seeing what I’d be modelling, and let me take it all in in my own time. Parures and rings on the ground floor, parure components on the first, and everything else on the second. He stopped by a wall of loose tiaras and studied me curiously.
“Try this for a start, Miss. You appear strong enough, but some things need to be got used to.” With that, he handed me what looked like a crown. “An imperial crown, Miss,” he explained. “It has a dip in the middle. This one, I made for Marie Antoinette.”
“You had Marie Antoinette in the shop?” I asked, almost dropping the great lump of gold and gemstones from my trembly fingers.
Mr Whybrow nodded. “It’s nothing unusual to get royalty in here, so mind your manners, for God’s sake. And no, she didn’t leave her head behind to be called for later,” he added. “Everyone asks that.” He ran critical eyes over me as I settled the crown on my head; I would have felt floaty and royal, but the thing was too heavy and I was trying to look as if I wasn’t about to be driven through the floor by its weight.
But Mr Whybrow seemed satisfied. He nodded. “I should explain, that whatever you see here, you may wear whenever or wherever you want. It’s a standard arrangement with assistants. But first we’ll need to get you some half decent hair. And some clothes, of course.” His words went over my head. I’d spent my life fighting for crusts of bread, and here was someone giving me – yes, giving me – more jewellery than a crowned head would see. He went on, “You’ve had a busy day, though; rest up for now, and we’ll see to your wardrobe on the morrow. I’d better show you where you’ll be sleeping.” I was glad he broached the matter. I'd been wondering how to ask; it seemed indiscreet – forward, even. After all, if some takes you out of the workhouse and decks you out like an Empress, there has to be a catch. Doesn’t there?
I had expected him to show me a nook under the counter to sleep in, but instead he took me outside and a few yards down the street to a door which I had missed, nestling discreetly in the great shop frontage. Inside was a single room, albeit of reasonably generous proportions. A single bed with a real mattress and pillow, not the wooden block that I was used to; the fireplace dwarfed the miserable workhous specimens that struggled to heat a dormitory with the output of a match, and in a little antechamber was a pump and stone sink.
“You’ll be found in coal, Miss; it’s sea coal so it’s a bit spitty and damp, but it does the job.”
But one thing bothered me. That catch still lurked at the back of my mind, and there was the single bed. “Sir – may I ask where you live, in case you’re needed?”
“Four thousand metres up,” he returned, succinctly. “I value my privacy.” A certain darkness overlaid his voice as he said that. But if he was going to live two and a half miles from me, it was unlikely that I’d have anything to worry about. For a few moments, he let me take in this new little treasure that I never thought I’d have. My own place.
But something else was still nagging at me, and he must have seen it on my face. “You have a question, Miss Bluebird?”
“Yes, sir.” I hesitated; I could not afford him to think I was ungrateful. But he struck me as the sort of man who appreciated directness. “Sir, you could have had the pick of girls with at least some experience to offer. Yet you chose a girl from the workhouse.”
He returned my directness with like. “I’ll go into all that tomorrow,” he said, again with that dark distant air. “You’ve had a lot to take in. For now, let’s just say that they’ve proved damned unreliable in the past, and I know that you will give your best – because you know what you have to go back to if you don’t. Now, you settle in and try to be at the shop bright ‘n’ early.” With that, and a wink, he left me to my little empire.
My first act as a woman of substance was to build up a fire, and chucking the clumsy workhouse boots into a corner, I tried to reflect on the events of the past couple of hours as the friendly glow tickled my toes.
One constant voice overrode the memories tumbling over in my head. How on earth had I pulled this off? It had started out as just another workhouse day, grey and unrezzed, but had ended –
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