rather have dark hair and eyes like you and Clara, and Pa. You must admit he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.’
Clara and Betsy exchanged wry smiles. ‘You haven’t been out much,’ Betsy said, laughing. ‘But I suppose Pa is good-looking in his way. The man I marry will have golden hair and hazel eyes, and he’ll be very rich and never go near a gaming table.’ She turned to Clara. ‘What about you, sister? Will you wed Luke and join the Skinner gang?’
Shocked, Clara stared at her in dismay. ‘What do you know about the Skinners?’
‘Everyone knows that they’re the toughest gang in the whole of London,’ Betsy said airily. ‘I heard a customer in the shop talking about them this morning.’
‘I love Luke.’ Jane glanced anxiously at Clara. ‘He’s been very kind to me, and I worry about him. He shouldn’t mix with those bad men.’
‘I’m sure he can take care of himself,’ Clara said firmly. ‘Anyway, I have no intention of marrying Luke – or anyone, come to that. I intend to have a shop in Oxford Street and turn it into a department store like no other.’
‘You’ll need more than a button box to do that.’ Betsy reached out for the last piece of potato. ‘Does anyone want this? It’s a shame for it to go to waste.’
‘No, you have it.’ Jane struggled to her feet. ‘Thank you for finishing what I started, Clara. I think I will go to bed, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not.’ Clara watched her sister as she made her way across the kitchen to their bedroom, leaning heavily on her crutches as she negotiated the flagstone floor. ‘I wish I could do something for her, Betsy. It’s no life for a girl of her age, cooped up all day with no one but Pa to talk to, and he’s not always here.’
‘We’d be better off without him, if you ask me.’ Betsy pushed her plate away. ‘I know we don’t earn much, but he shouldn’t use our money to gamble on the turn of a card, or whatever horse takes his fancy at the races.’
‘You’re right, of course, but he’s our father. He can do what he likes, but not for much longer, Betsy. I swear I’ll make things better for us – no matter what it takes.’
Next morning the streets were ankle-deep in snow when Clara made her way to Drury Lane. She opened up as usual, but the only people braving the weather were those who were slipping and sliding their way to their places of business. Miss Silver lived above the shop, but she rarely came down before noon these days. An ageing spinster who had cared for her invalid mother for most of her life, Rebecca Silver was not a well woman. Clara had witnessed the bouts of coughing that laid her low for days, and sometimes for weeks in winter, but the shop was Miss Silver’s living and the customers were her friends. She was not going to retire gracefully, and she sometimes said, in her rare moments of levity, that she would die behind the counter and be buried in a shroud made from Spitalfields silk.
Clara busied herself sweeping the floor and dusting the shelves, and was about to rearrange bolts of muslin when the door opened and her first customer of the day rushed in, bringing with her a gust of ice-cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.
‘Lizzie!’ Clara stared at her sister in surprise. ‘What brings you here?’
‘It’s not from choice, you may depend on that.’ Lizzie stamped the snow from her boots, creating icy puddles on the newly swept floorboards. ‘Miss Jones sent me to buy silk thread to mend Mrs Comerford’s best gown, which madam intends to wear tonight.’ Lizzie glanced out of the window, pulling a face. ‘Although I can’t see her going anywhere unless the weather improves.’
Clara pulled out the drawer containing spools of silks in rainbow hues. The sight of them always made her smile, but Lizzie was frowning ominously. ‘What’s the matter?’ Clara asked anxiously.
‘It has to be an exact match. Miss Jones doesn’t know how madam managed to snag the skirt, but the tear is quite noticeable and so the thread must blend in perfectly.’ Lizzie fished in her reticule and produced a tiny scrap of pink silk.
‘I think that is the nearest.’ Clara picked up a spool and held it against the material. ‘Take it to the door and look at it in a good light.’
‘Such a fuss over a tiny tear.’ Lizzie examined the colours in daylight. ‘You’re right. It’s a good match. I’ll take it.’
Clara wrapped the spool and handed it to her sister. ‘That will be twopence, please.’
‘Put it on Mrs Comerford’s account,’ Lizzie said grandly. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to say that when you went into a shop, Clara?’
‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’ Clara noted the purchase in the ledger Miss Silver kept for account customers.
‘Something’s wrong – it’s Pa, isn’t it?’ Lizzie gave her a searching look. ‘I can tell by your face, Clara. He’s up to his old tricks again, isn’t he?’
‘He’ll never change,’ Clara said, sighing. ‘He went out before I got home yesterday and hadn’t returned when I left this morning.’
‘And your button box is in Fleet’s pop shop, I suppose.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘You ought to take our father in hand, Clara.’
‘There’s nothing I can say or do that would make any difference.’
‘Then leave home, like I did. I didn’t want to go into service, but now I have my sights set on becoming a lady’s maid, and that will give me all sorts of advantages. Mrs Comerford’s husband might be in trade, but I dare say he has more money than most of the titled toffs that she tries to imitate. It’s quite pathetic the way she fawns and grovels when she entertains Lady this and Lady that to afternoon tea. I have to stand there ready to pick up a napkin if one of them drops it on the floor, and hand round the food, watching them stuff their greedy faces, all the time pretending that I’m invisible.’
‘At least you’re well fed and they provide your clothes. I’m sure it’s worth putting up with their odd ways just for that.’
‘I suppose so, but I go out of my way to help Miss Jones. It’s her job I’m after – that’s if I don’t land a rich husband first.’
Clara closed the ledger with a snap. ‘Have you anyone in particular in mind?’
‘That would be telling,’ Lizzie said with an arch smile. She tucked the spool of thread into her reticule. ‘I must go.’
‘It’s a long walk to Bedford Square in this weather,’ Clara said anxiously.
‘No matter. Miss Jones gave me the cab fare. She trusts me and so does Mrs Comerford.’ Lizzie left the shop with a cheerful wave of her hand and a faint trace of attar of roses in her wake. Clara could only guess that her sister had been sampling Mrs Comerford’s perfume while she dusted her room. Only Lizzie would be so bold. If she were discovered it would mean instant dismissal, but then Lizzie had the cheek of the devil.
Clara was about to replace the drawer when she heard a commotion upstairs. It sounded like someone choking, and she hurried through to the tiny parlour at the back of the shop, coming to a halt at the foot of the staircase. ‘Miss Silver. Are you all right?’
A
